Murder in Focus (18 page)

“Ten-forty,” he said. “But first we get ourselves another motel room.”

“Check out at this time of night?”

“No, we don't check out at all. We leave everything here as it is. We can buy toothbrushes at an all-night drugstore. We'll leave my car here, drive up in yours, and leave it on the street somewhere. Any objections?”

Harriet shook her head. “Why should I have any objections? If I stick around with you long enough, I'll have fifteen different addresses. I've always wanted to live like the rich.”

By now the data interpretation section of the Canadian Security Intelligence Service was dark and empty. Andy Cassidy sat alone in a small pool of light at Betty's desk and stared down at the file in front of him. He considered for a minute or two; tentative and potentially explosive as this might be, it was going to have to be passed along right away. Not hoarded, the way Steve Collins had obviously hoarded it for weeks and weeks. But passed along to whom? He pulled the telephone closer, lifted the receiver, and then put it down again. This was not the phone to use to talk about it. He extracted several pages from the file, picked up the folders, put them back in the black filing cabinet, and slammed the door shut. He locked it, went back into the photocopy room, hoisted up the top of the copier, restored the key to its odd resting place, and began locking up again. He gave one last look around Betty's office. The coffee maker was off, the note safe in his breast pocket, everything was as it had been. He headed for the telephone at the all-night diner near his apartment.

As he dialed the familiar number, it struck him that everything had changed now, that he had no business calling the unlisted number anymore, and that his reception might well be cool, even hostile. It was more likely, of course, that the number had been changed. But there was no interruption, no metallic message telling him the number was out of service. Henri Deschenes's familiar voice answered on the third ring, sounding alert and unhurried as usual.

“Henri? It's Andy Cassidy. Sorry to call so late and at home, but I've run across something that I think you ought to look at. No, no. Tomorrow will do fine. It's not that urgent, I think. Just let me give you a brief run-through. . . .” Five minutes later he hung up and wandered back to the counter to finish his lukewarm coffee, conscious of the blaze of burning bridges to his rear.

“The Mary Jo Motel doesn't seem to be quite as upscale as our last hovel,” said Harriet as she settled herself back into the car. “But, as far as I can tell, it doesn't actually appear to have bugs.”

“Come on,” said Sanders. “It's not that bad. You just have some irrational prejudice against paper bathmats.”

“And tin showers.”

“And plastic bedspreads.”

“And hourly rates,” added Harriet, giggling.

“Be serious,” said Sanders, looking out his window. “It's not that bad. You've never been in—”

“Now don't start with that worldly-wise, seen-it-all, scum-of-the-earth detective act,” said Harriet. “I saw the expression of pure horror on your face when you opened the door. And there it is. Stop.”

“What?”

“Seven-twenty Echo Drive. You just drove past it. The big house back there with all the lights. Back up.”

“Why don't we just sit here and have a look?” said Sanders, pulling in to the curb and backing up a few feet.

“It's huge, isn't it?” said Harriet softly. “I love Georgian houses.” She turned her head briskly back in Sanders's direction. “I wonder how hard it'll be to crash the party. Maybe I should try it alone. I might have better luck than you.”

Sanders didn't reply. Instead, he slouched down in the seat, put his right arm around Harriet's shoulders, and pulled her toward him. He could feel a tremor run through her body as it touched his.

“What in hell are we doing out here?” she whispered huskily. The sting she was trying to inject into the words was lost in her rapid and irregular breathing.

“Sssh,” he murmured, kissing her lightly on the temple and then the neck. She shivered. “Just sit and observe. Pretend you're bird-watching. For owls.”

She reached her face up to his and kissed him, pulling him closer. For a second or two he succumbed to his own overwhelming need to respond, and then pulled away, placing a finger on her lips and shaking his head. She buried her face in his shoulder and encircled his chest with those surprisingly strong arms. After an age of silence, an age in which her warm body and agitated breathing infected him with a powerful restlessness he was beginning to have trouble resisting, a black limousine pulled up in the circular drive and stopped at the front steps. “Look,” he whispered. Harriet raised her head and blinked in the light streaming in the window. A chauffeur got out, his cap and uniform clearly visible in the bright lights of the broad portico. The front door opened and Sanders pointed silently at the figure silhouetted in it. At the same time baroque music poured out over the neighborhood from the open door.

“Hey,” said Harriet in a whisper. “It's Anna Maria Strelitsch. She's leaving. Can you see what time it is?”

Sanders held his watch up to the street light three houses away. “Twelve-fifteen. Maybe the party is winding down.”

“I suppose it's possible. Who in hell lives there?”

Sanders shook his head. “I haven't the faintest idea. We can try the city directory tomorrow, and if that fails, I'll put Dubinsky on to finding out. My partner. It's wonderful what he can get done while sitting on his tail in Toronto.”

“What now?” whispered Harriet. “Don't you think I should try to get in quick before everyone leaves? I can always say that someone asked me—it's been done before.”

“No,” murmured Sanders. “Let's wait here and see who else turns up on the doorstep.” As he said that, half the lights in the front were turned off and the windows to the right of the front door were plunged in darkness. The door opened again and three people—men, probably—their bodies silhouetted and their faces shadowed by the lights, moved quickly down the steps and headed in the opposite direction. “Damn,” said Sanders. “Did you see anyone you recognized?”

“No. They could have been the caterers for all I could tell.” The lights in the other front room went out as she spoke.

“Why in hell,” said Sanders, “does someone who looks like a lumberjack, who was some kind of informer for the RCMP, and who was doing a lousy job of pretending to be a novelist, want to go to a party where they play baroque music all night? It doesn't seem to be in character.”

“Why worry about it?” said Harriet. “Nobody's consistent. And just how long are we going to sit here staring at a dark house? I'm getting sleepy.”

“Sleepy?” said Sanders. “That's a funny way to describe it.”

“Just trying to be delicate,” said Harriet, and rubbed provocatively up against him in the tight confines between the steering wheel and his chest. “After all, we have a perfectly good bed to go to and this place is looking pretty uninteresting.”

Sanders tried to hold her still. “Not more than a couple of hours or so,” he said, grinning.

Friday, May 19

Peter Rennsler slipped out of his bed in the Carleton University Residence. In the distance one early-waking bird was chirping; the sky was still almost black. He put on a dressing gown and padded softly down to the bathroom. He would have liked to shower, but didn't want to risk waking up any restless sleepers at the conference; instead, he washed and shaved quietly and with care. Minutes later he was dressed in corduroy trousers, a turtle-necked jersey, and a tweed jacket. Casual but elegant and very adaptable. He slipped a pair of leather gloves in his pocket. From the top drawer of his dresser he removed a thermos bottle and a jar of instant coffee. He spooned several teaspoonfuls of coffee into the thermos, added sugar, and plugged in the electric kettle that he had purloined from the communal kitchen the night before. He stared out the window as he waited for the water to boil, then poured it on the coffee and sealed it up. Last of all he removed a helmet, a folded tarpaulin, an attaché case, and a scarf from the closet, and left the room, locking the door carefully.

He walked rapidly out of the residence and headed for the most distant of the university's parking lots, where his motorcycle had been sitting since Wednesday. He fastened the tarp and his attaché case to the luggage carrier in back and put on his helmet; without a glance, he got on and drove off at a moderate speed north toward the deserted westbound Queensway and Highway 7.

He traveled without haste until he was well out of the city and the ring of suburban towns encircling it. Once on the two-lane highway he began counting intersections. At the third, he slowed and turned abruptly right. About a mile in from the highway, he stopped in front of a derelict barn and gently piloted his bike up the ruined laneway leading into it. The door was propped half-open. He halted his machine, pushed it inside, and waited for his eyes to adjust to the light. He undid the thermos and poured himself a small measure of coffee—he would want the rest later on. He finished the coffee, looked around, noted the existence of a large parcel wrapped in heavy plastic under the teeth of a broken-down cultivator, nodded in satisfaction, and checked his watch. Time to leave. He covered the bike with his tarp, left the barn, and headed briskly back to the highway on foot. Minutes after he arrived at the intersection, a car slowed down, allowing him to jump in. As it headed back to Ottawa, the morning sun was flooding the countryside with light.

The Mary Jo Motel didn't extend to the glamour of having its own coffee shop, and so at eight the next morning, Sanders was sitting in a dark booth in the nearest restaurant that claimed to serve breakfast, observing a sleepy-eyed Harriet. “I hope you're not expecting me to be bright and witty,” she said, running her tongue lightly over her upper lip. “I feel as if someone just wrung me out and dropped me down here to mildew.”

“What does that mean?” asked Sanders, surprised.

“I was afraid that you were looking at me like someone who expects conversation at breakfast. Can't you read a paper or something?”

“If I had one, I could,” he said equably. “I hadn't realized you were dedicated to breakfast in silence.”

“Not always,” she moaned. “But this morning . . .” He pushed himself over to the end of the bench seat and stood up. “Where are you going?” she asked. There was an accusatory tone in her voice.

“I'll be right back. I'm going to buy us a paper.”

“On your way out would you tell the waitress I'm going to expire if she doesn't bring the coffee right away? Please?”

“Will do.” By the time he returned, an empty orange juice glass and half-filled cup of coffee sat in front of her place. He dropped the paper on the table between them and slipped back into the booth. “Which section?” he asked. “And then not another word until you've finished eating.”

“Look,” she said, paying no attention to him or the paper, “I've been thinking, and I want to know what you thought you were doing last night.” Suddenly her pale cheeks coloured and she grinned. “I mean before that. I know you're the professional, but what in hell were we supposed to get out of just sitting in that car and watching a dead house? And I don't see why you didn't want me to go in and look around. A party doesn't exist—short of a reception for the queen given by the governor-general—that I can't crash.” She sat back and looked smug.

“I thought you didn't want to talk over breakfast.”

“That's before I have coffee. And don't change the topic.”

“I'm sure you could have got in there,” said Sanders. “It's no trick for a single woman who looks like you to find space at a party. But what in hell were you supposed to do once you got in?” he asked with sudden irritation. “Go around asking everyone who stole your pictures? Ask the host what his connection was with someone who might have stolen your pictures? ‘Excuse me, sir, but I was wondering if you had happened to invite any of the unsavory thieves and murderers that I'm looking for?' Be sensible, Harriet, darling,” he said, picking up her hand and trapping it in both of his. “All I wanted to know was who was at that thing, and we got there too late for that. Obviously everyone interesting left just before we got there. Strelitsch must have been the last guest to go. I can find out who lives there today. I don't have to do it in the middle of the night.”

“Ah, here comes breakfast,” said Harriet. She looked reflectively at him. “Maybe I'll drop around there this afternoon with a camera or two and ask him if I can photograph his house. Some people are pleased at the idea, but even if they don't want to be photographed, they usually don't mind chatting. Do you suppose Strelitsch is his girlfriend?”

“Do you think all this could wait until we find out who the owner is?”

“Certainly not,” said Harriet, turning to her bacon and eggs. “And miss,” she called to the waitress's retreating back, “could you bring us another order of brown toast? Thank you.”

Harriet pushed her empty plate away after a silent meal. “Now, the paper. Which section? No, don't answer. You must be a sports fan,” she said, grabbing off the first section and pushing the rest toward him. “Men like you are all sports fans, aren't they?” She gave him a wide-eyed look and then winked.

Sanders, who hadn't looked at the sports pages for some years, accepted defeat with good grace. He picked up the paper, held out his coffee cup for a refill, and settled down to what he had. The choice was dismal: a pair of depressing articles graced the first page—one on violence in professional hockey, the other on cocaine use among baseball players. He rejected both, turned the page, and settled down to read a long article on the upcoming local high school track-and-field meet instead.

Just as he was getting to the last long list of prospects for the regional finals, he was interrupted by a slap as Harriet dropped her paper down. “John, look at this,” she said. She had turned the paper half around and was pointing at a column headed FIRE IN STITTSVILLE CLAIMS LOCAL VICTIM. “Isn't that where you were last night? A boardinghouse in Stittsville?”

Sanders pulled the paper over in front of him and read the brief article. “Not very informative, is it?” he said.

“I don't know,” said Harriet. “I haven't had a chance to read it yet.”

“‘. . . tragic fire in a rooming house . . .'” muttered Sanders in her direction. “‘Rescue workers made several unsuccessful attempts to enter the burning building. . . . No other bodies were found . . . house completely destroyed in the blaze, which raged for five hours. . . . After a preliminary investigation, Fire Chief Reginald K. Johnson estimated the damage . . . at $150,000. Cause unknown . . . neighbors expressed a belief to reporters that the owner of the house had been concerned about a faulty wood stove. The identity of the victim is being withheld pending notification of the next of kin.'”

“Is that the person you went to see?” asked Harriet.

“How in hell do I know?” Sanders snapped. He thought of poor, silly Miranda nibbling on the end of her long braid of hair, and a terrible weight descended onto his shoulders. “There must be more than one boarding house in the town, it's not that small. And this article is worthless. It doesn't even give the sex of the owner. Jesus, what kind of garbage is this—‘neighbors expressed a belief'!” Do they always write like this?” He pushed the paper back to her just as Harriet began to slide over to the edge of the bench she was sitting on. “And where are you going?” he demanded.

“To find out,” she said innocently. “If it's the same person, that is. Not if they always write that way.”

“How in hell are you going to do that?”

“You're going to give me her name, I'm going to try telephoning her and asking her if she has a room to rent, and if I do get through to her, then we know it was some other house that burned down, don't we? After all, if the house is totally demolished, the phone won't be working anymore, will it?”

“Not bad,” said Sanders. “Especially for first thing in the morning.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said with exaggerated modesty. “You got any change?”

Several minutes elapsed before Harriet slipped back into the booth again. “Well?” asked Sanders. “What did you find out? Or are we booked into a room in Stittsville for the next week?”

Harriet shook her head. “I didn't exactly find anything out,” she said. “But there's something funny going on.”

“What happened?” asked Sanders. His voice was sharp. “Tell me exactly.”

“Well, I got the number from the long-distance operator and dialed it. By the way, here's your money back. No one seemed to want it.” She dropped a pile of coins on the table between them. “The phone was answered on the first ring by a man, which surprised me. I was expecting to get either the beautiful Miranda or the usual wait and then a little message about the number being out of service or something like that. Anyway, as I was saying, a man answered, and I asked for Mrs. Miranda Cruikshank, and
he
asked me who I was, and
I
said that all I wanted to do was talk to her, and
he
said could he tell her who was calling, and
I
asked him why he wanted to know. Then I decided that we could go on doing that forever, and meantime no one interrupted and asked me for money, and so I said that all I wanted was to ask if she had any rooms available and since when did you need a credit check to do that. I figured that if I really had been after a room I'd be getting mad by now. And he said that he wasn't sure and could I hang on while he found out? Anyway, still no one wanted my money, so I was getting suspicious—or, by now,
very
suspicious—and I hung up. They were tracing the call, weren't they? The line was clicking a bit.”

“That doesn't mean much, but yes, probably. It sounds as if he was stalling.”

“Does that mean we're going to be surrounded by hordes of gun-toting policemen any second now?”

Sanders shook his head. “Probably not. You weren't on the phone that long. On the other hand, there's no point in tempting fate and hanging around here. It can be very time-consuming to be suspected of torching a little old landlady.”

“You think it was arson?”

He frowned. “They think so. Why the fuss if it wasn't? Of course, we're still not positive it was my landlady who went up in smoke, are we?”

“Aren't we?” said Harriet quietly.

Sanders shook his head, but whether in agreement or disagreement she couldn't tell. “Dammit. Why burn down that house?” he asked. “And if it was deliberate, why burn the landlady with it? As far as I could tell, she was insignificant, knew nothing. A bit crazy, maybe, but completely harmless.” The memory of that blue Ford in his rearview mirror returned. Had he seen it outside Stittsville? Or had it followed him there and stayed behind to get rid of Miranda and her house?

“She knew about those papers under the Christmas cake,” said Harriet. “And she can't have been killed just because you found out about them, can she?” she added. “How many people besides you do you suppose she showed them to? Or were you the only one whose charm she succumbed to?”

“You're a cruel woman, Harriet Jeffries,” he said. “But absolutely right. If she showed them to me in all confidence, she probably showed them to a few other people in all confidence. After all, I just landed on her doorstep out of nowhere, didn't I?” He slipped out of the booth, grabbed his coat, and began to put it on. “Come on, lady. We'd better get the hell out of here.”

They darted across the road through the morning rush hour traffic and landed, panting, in front of their new motel. “I'm going out to Stittsville again,” said Sanders. “I have to find out what happened. Do you think you can stay out of trouble until I get back?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well, don't go off by yourself and try to break into the house on Echo Drive, for instance. Or stalk possible murderers. Stay in the motel room until I get back.” Harriet grimaced. “Or at least leave a note with the manager telling me where I can find you. Under this name.” He scribbled “Mr. E. Dubinsky” on a piece of paper torn from his address book.

“Who's that?” asked Harriet, with a puzzled shake of the head.

“Me, as far as they know. Actually it's my partner's name. I'm more likely to respond to it than I am to McTavish or Jones.”

“On the other hand, it's pretty distinctive and obviously connected with you.” Harriet frowned at the paper.

“Only by my colleagues, you fool,” said Sanders, laughing. “And they're not the ones we're trying to sidestep. Are they?”

“I guess not,” said Harriet. Her voice was creased with doubt.

Andy Cassidy closed the door to Deschenes's office and pulled a bundle of papers from his inside jacket pocket. “How secure is this room?” he asked.