The Chase: A Novel (26 page)

“Why’s that?”

“Other than the red toes, you have the determination of ten men.”

She twisted to meet his gaze and did not smile. “It’s an illusion. Nothing more. The truth is, I’m scared.”

He glanced at her. “Which is why you’re going home.”

“I thought we settled that. You Lone Ranger, me Tonto, remember?”

He sighed. “I suppose you have the memory of an elephant, too?”

Claire had to smile. “Not until recently.”

He sighed again, but then he met her gaze and smiled back. “You’re booked. Tonight.”

Claire smiled more widely. “Like hell I am.”

He didn’t answer, and she looked out of her window, her mood unquestionably lighter now that that was settled. They had left the promenade and beach behind. The fresh sea air was wonderful, and the town was a tourist trap but very picturesque. A silence ensued. It was easy and comfortable, as if they really were lovers. Claire finally said, “Can I ask you some questions?”

“Can I stop you?”

“They’re not personal.” But as she spoke, she wondered if he’d seen Reception Girl last night or that morning.

“What a relief.”

“Changed my mind. How was last night?”

He blinked. “I went to bed. Alone—as if it’s any of your business.”

“Just checking. There’s a lot of disease out there.”

“What is really on your mind?”

“The case. Eddy Marshall.” She looked at him and thought she saw him stiffen.

“I thought we went over that.”

“We did. But you couldn’t have known your uncle if he died in December of 1940.” This point had been bothering her a bit. “And you are so into Eddy Marshall. He was only a relative from another generation. You’re after Elgin for murdering a relative who died probably twenty years before you were ever born.”

“If you’re fishing for my age, I was born in ’sixty-two,” Ian said.

Claire smiled.

“He was a hero, remember? And in truth, because of Eddy, I fell into my fascination with World War II, the Holocaust, and ultimately, my job.”

Claire would have used the word “obsession,” but she kept silent. She waited for Ian to open up the subject of his murdered uncle, but he did not. She said with a smile, “He looked just the way Hollywood might have portrayed an RAF pilot in one of those fifties films. Handsome and dashing, stereotypically so. Sort of like a tougher, rougher version of Errol Flynn.” Actually, Eddy Marshall had looked almost exactly like Ian.

Ian was silent for a moment as he drove, changing lanes. “He was the oldest of the five Marshall boys; my father, Bill, was the youngest. When Eddy was murdered in 1940, he was only twenty-three. My father was twelve.”

“Your father must have worshiped his oldest brother,” Claire said, twisting in the seat to face him fully.

“He did. Eddy sent letters home to everyone, including my father. Dad kept not only his letters, but everyone else’s.”

“Those letters must be a treasure trove,” she said.

“The ones to my father are light,” Ian said. “He was writing to a kid. He kept it light with my grandparents, too, obviously not wanting to alarm them. But my uncle Joe, who is seventy-nine now, received some heavy-duty stuff.”

Claire had to tug his sleeve. “Such as?”

Ian glanced at her. “He had some hairy dogfights. He wrote once about a dogfight he lost to an ME-109. He was flying against the sun. He was blinded. He was badly hit—he lost his tail. He ditched out over the English Channel. Rescue workers picked him up in a dory.”

“Wow,” Claire said, visualizing Eddy in a parachute over the rough waters of the channel. “Did he ever mention Elgin?”

Ian gripped the wheel. “My uncle Joe has Alzheimer’s, Claire. But twenty years ago he was okay. Before he became ill, he told my father that Eddy told him Elgin was a spy.” He looked at her, his eyes dark. “Eddy was on to him, that’s obvious, and that is why he was murdered at Elgin Hall with a thumb knife and dumped in a nearby pond.”

“At least your dad remembers the conversation with Joe.” She hesitated. “When did Joe tell your dad all of this?”

“In 1972,” he said shortly.

Warning bells went off for Claire. She stared at Ian, who seemed grim and even upset. How in God’s name would he remember that date? And the original conversation between Joe and Eddy had taken place sometime before Christmas of 1940. Thirty-two years was a huge gulf between the original conversation and Joe discussing it with his youngest brother, Bill.

“You know, Ian, I hate to rain on your parade, but there’s a bit of hearsay going on, don’t you think?”

He looked right into her eyes. “Is there?”

“How would Joe recall that conversation thirty-two years later?”

“He did. My father recorded the conversation. I’ve heard it. I still have the tape, in fact. His memory seemed fine to me.”

Claire was taken aback. “Your father
recorded
their conversation?” she asked, amazed.

Ian nodded, his gaze on the road.

“Okay,” she said, more bewildered than before. “Why did your father record a conversation with his own brother?”

“How would I know?” He was curt.

Claire winced. Why the sudden black mood? “Is anything wrong?” she asked cautiously.

“No.”

Claire realized they were passing signs for the exit for Rhuddlan Castle. She tensed involuntarily and found herself holding her breath. The exit disappeared behind them, and Claire forced herself to relax.

“Do you feel confident that if we bring Elgin in, he will be convicted for all the murders he committed? You mentioned there isn’t a solid case against him for treason.”

“There isn’t. Scotland Yard dropped the investigation in the late forties—I think I mentioned to you that the Elgin file was forgotten for all these years. However, things have changed. The odds will be in our favor now. If Scotland Yard and the FBI can’t hang the guy in today’s modern world, who can?”

“Not to mention the SFPD and the Llandudno police force,” Claire had to add. Llandudno was the tourist town they had just left.

“Don’t be snide, Glam Girl,” Ian chastised mockingly. “It doesn’t match the smile.”

“Okay. ‘Reform’ is my middle name.”

“There’s something I haven’t mentioned before,” Ian said slowly.

“What’s that?”

“Eddy’s wife went to the authorities after his death with a claim.”

He glanced at her.

“What kind of claim?” Claire asked curiously.

“Rachel Greene claimed that Eddy had taken some very incriminating photographs of Elgin just before he died. The only problem is, she not only did not know their content, she also did not know what he did with them.”

The hairs stood up on Claire’s neck. “I believe her. She was his wife. She would have been his confidante. We have to find those photographs, Ian.” Excitement filled her.

“It’s a bit hard to look for something when you don’t even know what they contain,” Ian said. “Besides, maybe Elgin got there way ahead of us and everyone—say about sixty years ago—and destroyed them.”

Claire studied his chiseled profile. “I wonder what those photographs contained?”

He shrugged. “It could be anything. It could be as simple as photographing Elgin using his German-made wireless radio.”

“I’m no lawyer, but that might not be the nail in his Hamburg-made coffin.”

“No, I don’t think that would be strong enough.”

“It would be very cool to find those photos,” Claire said, this time more to herself than to him.

He only smiled as if he thought her amusing, and then his eyes went back to the road. The smile vanished. “Claire? There is one more thing,” Ian said, exiting at the road that would take them south and to Cardiff.

This time she did not like his tone; instantly, she was wary. “What’s that?”

He glanced at her.

“What?” She sat up straighter.

“Elizabeth Duke called.”

Claire stared.

“Several times. She’s been calling my office in New York City. Apparently she’s in London and she insists upon meeting with you,” Ian said. “Immediately.”

CHAPTER 11

It was almost ten that evening when they finally closed the door of their London hotel room. Claire had slept quite a bit during the long drive to Cardiff, but on the short flight back to London, she had started to worry about the Dukes. Why had Elizabeth followed her to London? Claire could hardly believe the trip was coincidence; she would have known if the Dukes were taking a holiday in Britain. She hadn’t heard a word about any such travel plans.
What could Elizabeth want?

Claire walked over to one of the twin beds and flopped down on it. They had decided to share a room, but not because of the expense. Claire had looked at Ian with wide eyes and told him in a quivering tone that Elgin was out there, hunting them. It had been hard not to blow it, and even though she had kept her agenda hidden, Claire felt certain that Ian understood her scam. But he hadn’t seemed angry; he had seemed resigned.

Of course, Elgin really was out there, and yesterday she’d been shot. Maybe they’d have shared a room anyway, but Claire hadn’t wanted to leave anything to chance.

Claire knew what Elizabeth wanted. She wanted to protect her husband. Why else come all this way to meet with her? Claire felt sick. There was no joy in the knowledge that if William were Elgin, Jean-Léon was off the hook. In some ways, William had been more fatherly to her than her own father had ever been. Claire did not want to go down memory lane now.

But she was meeting Elizabeth first thing in the morning. It was hard not to.

“I’m exhausted. I need a hot shower and some food,” Claire announced.

“Do whatever it is that you have to do,” Ian said, not paying her any attention. He was already taking his laptop out of its carrying case and setting it up on the room’s single desk. Clearly he intended to work.

Claire watched him sticking a floppy into the laptop’s drive. He didn’t seem to care that they were sharing a room, which told her that he wasn’t as interested in her as she was in him. Which was a good thing, of course. That way she could stay out of trouble.

Except she had been thinking about it, and she didn’t want to stay away. Not anymore, not after yesterday. She had a yearning for this man that made no sense. And it got to her ego that he could be so immune to her charms.

Claire studied him. He was so intense. He had probably forgotten that she was present, and didn’t even know that she was watching him and thinking very unholy thoughts.

Claire folded her arms. “Hmm. I’m in the mood for birdbrains. What do you think?”

Ian’s response was “Mmm.” He began typing away on the keyboard.

Claire lifted the phone, becoming quite annoyed. “White or red with that?”

“Whatever,” he said.

She narrowed her eyes. Maybe that was the key. She could get him drunk and then take total advantage.

His head whipped around. “What the hell are you doing?”

She flushed. “Ordering room service.”

“You’re boring holes in my back.”

“I was not,” she said with mock indignation. “I beg your pardon!”

“I’m going to work for a few hours. Then I’m going out to meet Maclntyre for a drink.”

Claire hung up the phone. “Without me?”

“It’s a guy thing—and don’t start with the big eyes, Claire,” he warned. He turned abruptly back to his laptop.

She couldn’t believe it. They would dine—and then he would abandon her to her own devices. Not that she needed to be entertained. Claire knew she had better things to worry about, like meeting Elizabeth the next morning at her hotel, the Berkeley, on Wilton Place. That was only a few blocks from the Hilton Tower. Claire knew she should prepare herself for what might come.

Claire picked up the phone, her spirits sinking. God, how could this be happening? If Elizabeth was here to protect William, then she knew everything, then she was an accomplice of sorts, and Claire loved her so. Maybe she had so suddenly come abroad because she was worried about Claire tracking David’s killer; maybe she knew nothing about their hunt for Elgin. Claire couldn’t help praying that was the case.

Ian’s typing stopped. He turned to look at her. “Now what?”

“I’m worried.”

“I can see that. Elizabeth?”

Claire nodded. She suddenly felt so sad, enough to cry.

“Claire, let’s not anticipate or predict anything. Let’s see what she has to say. Stay in the present. Don’t start thinking up worst-case scenarios. You’ll only scare yourself.”

He was right. “How about a nice filet mignon?” she asked.

“Great.” He actually smiled at her, and it was warm. So much that she felt its warmth right down to her curling toes. “Get a good Burgundy or Bordeaux while you’re at it.”

“Okay.” Claire smiled back, and their eyes locked. Ian was the one to turn away first.

She had to face it. She was definitely in love. She no longer considered Ian a stranger. And things would work out—somehow. Claire would settle now for any scenario as long as William and Jean-Léon were innocent. If her father had lied to her all of these years to protect his brother, she would be able to understand. She promised herself that and refused to consider any implications or how shaky it actually felt.

After ordering their meal, Claire got up abruptly and went into the bathroom, closing and locking the door. She tossed her purse on the vanity. She didn’t want to look at herself in the mirror, because she felt horrid and filthy. As she stripped, she wished she had a sexy nightie—even better, some sultry makeup. Claire had left her red lipstick and kohl eye pencil at home. She quickly showered, then debated the choice of dressing for dinner in jeans, Ian’s soft T-shirt, or a hotel towel. The hotel wasn’t ritzy enough to offer bathrobes to its guests, which was a relief. Claire chose the towel, dusted some blush on her cheeks, put gloss on her lips, pasted a smile on her face, and walked back into the room.

She was nervous. Really, really nervous.

He spoke without turning. “I found something.”

Claire went to stand behind him, silently ordering him to turn around and look up. But telepathy had never been her thing. “What?”

“A copy of a paragraph from the
Evening News.
Jesus, Claire.” Ian turned to look at her. “It’s from—” He stopped. “Where are your clothes?”