Murder in Focus (26 page)

The sergeant looked at him with a new wariness. “Security. Inspector Higgs.” He pushed his chair back and yelled for the constable, who poked his head in the door with suspicious speed. “Look, Coleman. Call RCMP and see if you can locate an Inspector Higgs in Security. Ask him if—don't bother.” He sighed, watching the confused and panic-stricken look on Coleman's face. “Sit in here and watch this guy. I'll call the RCMP.”

Sanders and Harriet were sitting tranquilly in the backseat of a patrol car, being sped toward the grim fastnesses of Mountie headquarters. Sanders had made mild objections to their riding as prisoners in the rear, considering who he was and where he was accustomed to sitting. “Look, buddy,” said the uniformed constable, unimpressed with Sanders's rank or his power. “I was told to come and pick you two up and to make damned sure that you actually got to headquarters. Those were the words. So I am. Making sure.” Sanders gave up gracefully and climbed in after Harriet.

“How are you?” he asked anxiously. “They weren't very forthcoming about you back in there.”

“I'm fine,” said Harriet. The gray of her cheeks and lips belied her confident assertion. “Really. Just a bit battered-feeling. What did you tell them?”

“Absolutely nothing. What did you tell them?”

“I said we were out running and we just felt like cutting through that backyard. I don't think they believed me,” she added. “But it seemed friendlier to tell them that than just to sit there and say nothing. I thought they looked a little annoyed.” She dropped her head back and closed her eyes. “What do they want us at headquarters for?”

“I don't know, ma'am,” said the constable, whose ears were apparently sharper than either one of them had realized. “I was just told to pick you up and bring you here. Nobody told me what for,” he said as he turned into the drive and pulled up in front of the building. “I expect the superintendent will let you know.” He stopped, unlocked the doors, and came around to escort them into the building.

By the time they reached Henri Deschenes's office, Harriet was leaning heavily on Sanders's supporting arm. Several others were already milling about there. A tired-looking Sylvia neatly snaffled Harriet as she went by her desk. “I expect they'll want to see you later,” Sylvia said, “but for the moment, perhaps you wouldn't mind sitting out here with me. I'm about to call down for sandwiches and coffee. Would you like some?”

“No thanks,” said Harriet faintly, suddenly sickened by the thought of eating.

“The egg salad is pretty bland,” Sylvia continued, paying no attention to Harriet's reply, “the cheese is inedible, but they do a nice turkey and a really good hot corned beef and mustard.” She glanced sharply at Harriet's white face. “Let me take your jacket,” she said, and reached for one edge of the collar as she began to move behind her.

“I think I'd rather keep it on,” said Harriet. “I'm awfully cold.” But the peacefully mundane quality of the exchange seemed to signal that her ordeal was over for the time being and, overcome by a wave of exhaustion, she sat down abruptly in a large, comfortable chair that had appeared out of nowhere.

Sylvia stood looking at her for one indecisive moment and then turned toward an alcove in the corner. “I'll get you a coffee.” Harriet heard her feet brush over the carpeting, then the sound of her voice murmuring in the distance. In a minute she returned with two mugs of coffee. “Here,” she said, “I put the sugar in already. And the doctor will be up in a minute.”

“What doctor?” said Harriet, looking doubtfully at the mug. She hated sugar in her coffee, but she was suddenly hideously thirsty.

“You're bleeding over that sweatshirt of yours,” said Sylvia. “And I just had the carpet replaced in here. We wouldn't want to ruin it, would we? Drink your coffee.”

Sanders was seated at another table on the other side of the door, in an atmosphere noticeably less hostile than the one he had just left. Charlie Higgs had come down to the elevator to meet them, presumably to erase the negative impression caused by their mode of transport, and Superintendent Deschenes seemed tranquil enough in humor as he stepped around his desk to shake hands. There were three others sitting quietly in the room. One of them, a dark, squarely built, powerful-looking man, rose to his feet as Sanders entered the room. He stepped forward and grasped Sanders's hand firmly.

“Carlo Hoffel, Inspector Sanders. I was talking to you earlier on the telephone. I would like to offer you the thanks of the Austrian government for helping to avert a most unpleasant situation.”

“You mean the tip was good?” asked Sanders with a pleased smile. “You never know about these things. I didn't have much to go on, and for all I knew, it could have been next Friday, or any Friday next month.”

“Ah,” said Higgs. “Joe plus one. I wondered what you were on to. Remember Steve Collins's system?” he said, turning to Deschenes, and then walking over to the conference table and sitting down, apparently willing to wait for elucidation. The others got up automatically and followed him.

“Actually,” said Deschenes, “we don't really
know
that the tip was good, although we are piecing together some interesting things.”

“Yes,” said Hoffel. “There were some interesting things at the house on Echo Drive—”

“The hell there were!” said Sanders, nettled. “I went over that house and found nothing—except Miss Jeffries's pictures, which were what I was looking for all along.”

“You didn't go far enough, Inspector,” said Hoffel. “There were things up on the third floor. Weapons, ammunition, files. It's wonderful.”

“We had to leave you people something to do,” said Sanders. “Besides, we were otherwise occupied. And I would be extremely grateful if you could somehow extract those pictures from the house. They have no evidentiary importance. The only one you might want is in the mail on its way to Toronto. The box should be in a small back bedroom on the second floor, under the bed,” he added.

“Indeed,” said Deschenes, opening the file in front of him. “Charlie, could you call down and see about rescuing that box of pictures?” Higgs nodded and moved over to the telephone on the conference table.

There was a short rap on the door. Sylvia swept in, dropped a note in front of Deschenes and swept out again before anyone could register her entrance. Deschenes picked up the note and turned back to Sanders. “Would that be the same small back bedroom that also contained an armed man, unconscious, concussed, and bleeding, when we arrived?”

“Mmm,” said Sanders. “Is he badly hurt?”

“Adequately,” said Hoffel. “But we got Karl Lang, and that was what was important. Groenwald is merely a, uh, lackey, a dangerous one, a Canadian citizen with a criminal record and Austrian connections; but we wanted Lang. He's one of ours. And not only that, but you have supplied what we never had before—and that is a clear-cut reason for someone to hold him while we seize his records and investigate him without interference from his well-meaning friends in the government.”

“What's that?” answered Sanders, startled.

“Come now, Inspector,” said Deschenes. “Surely you are not that deficient in your knowledge of the criminal code. Forcible confinement, assault causing bodily harm.” He picked up Sylvia's note again. “It seems that Miss Jeffries's injuries are serious enough to fall within the meaning of the act. By the way, Miss Jeffries is being looked after. My secretary has obtained medical attention for her. She will be fine. We have Lang on charges that could bring in a good ten or fifteen years, maybe. Long enough before he comes to trial, at any rate, for the Austrians to carry out their investigations.”

“I hope you're investigating the violinist as well,” said Sanders. “Do you realize that every time we went near Lang's house she was there, in the middle of things?”

“Precisely,” said Higgs, nodding in a pleased sort of way at Sanders, as though he had invented him. “But you were obviously aware of her complicity,” he added, turning to Hoffel.

Hoffel shook his head and grinned. “She's good, isn't she? Although I think Lang was getting a little suspicious of her in the last couple of days. I told her she would have to stop, uh, hanging around his house so frequently. You see, we hadn't been able to get anywhere near Lang on our own. But he can't resist these glamorous, artistic types, though, and so—when he seemed to become, uh, well, infatuated with her—we used it.”

“Well, I'll be damned,” said Higgs. “You mean she's one of your people? No wonder . . .” He turned toward Hoffel and shook his head. “Let me give you a piece of advice. The next time you have someone under cover, don't hang around staring at them all the time. I picked her out right away, only I figured her for a psycho with a Beretta in her handbag and you knew about it. No wonder Lang was getting suspicious.”

Hoffel reddened and raised his hands in a gesture of acknowledgment. “
Mea culpa
,” he said. “I found it difficult to let her operate on her own.”

“You have world-class musicians in your organization? That's very impressive,” said Sanders.

Hoffel laughed. “No. That was the problem. She's not really in the organization. She's my friend, uh, girlfriend? Is that what you call it?”

“Only if you mean that you and she are . . .” Higgs paused, looking for a precise term to cover the situation.

“Right. My girlfriend from the old days. We come from the same small town. When we both moved away, we . . .” Hoffel paused as if baffled how to explain the situation. “But we hadn't seen each other for several years,” he said simply, “until we met again in Vienna, and Herr Lang never discovered that I was in her background.”

“Weren't you worried that he would?” asked Higgs curiously.

“Worried? At times,” Hoffel answered with a suddenly grim and tight-lipped countenance.

“What was Lang up to?” asked Sanders, partly to change the subject and partly because everyone else appeared to take his mission for granted.

“Oh, to assassinate the prime minister, of course, and take over, if possible, in the ensuing chaos. He belongs to a group of maniacs in the right wing of our politics. Very difficult to deal with, because he has many friends who are reasonable people and who believe him to be a good man, conservative in nature, but loyal. We had information, from Anna Maria, of course, that his organization was going to try something here. They have, it appears,” Hoffel said, turning to Deschenes, “some sort of contact of an official nature helping them in this country. You might wish to investigate that, Superintendent. Perhaps later in the evening, Miss Strelitsch and I could discuss what she has discovered with you.”

“Contact?” said Deschenes in the ensuing silence.

“Yes. If you would excuse me, Superintendent, gentlemen, I must report to my ambassador. I will return, if you wish, with Miss Strelitsch.” Hoffel rose, and nodded gravely to the assembled company. Henri Deschenes rose as well and followed him out into the secretary's office.

Charlie Higgs and Ian MacMillan got to their feet as soon as the two men were out of the room. Higgs looked around him vaguely and reached for his briefcase, which was lying on a chair. “I think I ought to be going now,” he said. “You people don't need me anymore.”

“And I think you never needed me,” said Ian MacMillan genially. “Good night, Andy.”

“I really don't think you guys had better go,” said Andrew Cassidy with a slightly worried frown. “I think the old man has a lot more he wanted to go into.”

“So, tell him I'll call in,” said MacMillan. “Look, I haven't had supper. I have to go over today's reports for any snags and revise our plans for tomorrow. I don't have time to sit around and mumble about spies and Austrian terrorist organizations. If you ask me, nothing happened today because nothing was supposed to happen. That prime minister could have walked back to Ottawa and no one would have touched him. Coming, Charlie?” And the two men walked out of the office by the rear door.

“Have Ian and Charlie left?” asked Deschenes as he came back in. He seemed neither surprised nor disturbed. “We have a few other things to ask you about, Inspector. That's why I invited Andy Cassidy to be here. He's been looking into the death of Steve Collins.”

“Steve Collins?”

“Don Bartholomew to you, probably,” said Cassidy. “He was under cover, for us. CSIS.”

“And the regional police seem to feel that they have been stumbling across you everywhere they go. Some of it we can understand—we have heard about the business of the picture—”

“Just one thing,” said Sanders. “Unofficially, off the record, no lawsuits, nothing, was it you guys who trashed my motel room? Obviously it was Lang and Green, or whatever it was that Hoffel called him, who broke into Miss Jeffries's apartment, because they had the pictures. Do you know how she is, by the way?” he asked, suddenly conscious that some time had passed since they had whisked her off.

“The doctor has been in to see her. She's fine. My secretary and the staff nurse have her tucked away in some warm corner lying down. And no, we didn't do that. At least it was not authorized from here,” Deschenes added cautiously. “But when you turned up in Stittsville . . . What were you doing?”

“Trying to get Miss Jeffries's pictures back. Since we didn't have much hope of finding the man in the picture on our own, I thought I'd nose around the victim's end of things, on the assumption that Green hadn't just picked him out at random. And actually, we did find the other man in the picture, but we lost him again.”

“Indeed?” said Deschenes. “And who was this man?”

“Don't know,” said Sanders. “Average to tall, just under six feet, I would guess. About thirty, blond hair, tanned, slender build, very fit-looking, maybe one-hundred-fifty-five to one-hundred-sixty pounds. No obvious distinguishing marks. He was attending a conference at Carleton University and we spotted him there. He lost us very smoothly and professionally.”