Betrayal

BETRAYAL

Seven short stories

JIM CARR

COPYRIGHT: 2017 JamesWCarr

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

ISBN: 978-0-9947815-3-6

The Man Who Knew Too Much

Dr. Cyril Grant, Jake Sharpe’s doctor, didn’t have good news for him. His heart didn’t sound quite right, and he urged him to see a cardiologist.

“If I were you, I’d take off work for a week or two until you see the specialist. It could be stress at work that’s getting to you. But it’s always best to be sure. Especially when it involves your heart, and while you’re at it, I’d say goodbye to your cigarettes. They’re not doing you any good.”

Jake nodded. “Go ahead and set up the appointment.”

He took the elevator down to his office, picked up his bags and waved to the limo waiting to take him to the airport.

As a computer-savvy stock market whiz, Jake seemed like an unstoppable force. Yet, for all his smarts in helping others make millions, he earned only thousands. Part of the problem, Jake would be the first to admit, was himself. He was risk-averse with his own money but adventurous with the investments of others. What Jake could do for others, he couldn’t bring himself to do it for himself. He liked sure things.

The limo suddenly limo stopped, and he looked up. The driver turned. “Here you are, Bub. Delmonico’s.”

The driver looked different somehow. So did the limo. In fact, it wasn’t his limo. “This isn’t the airport,” said

Jake, a six-footer with a tanned face and deep blue eyes, who tended to fly off the handle when people let him down.

“Listen, mister, you said Delmonico’s and here we are at Delmonico’s.” The cab driver pointed out the entrance. “I don’t know what you’re trying to pull, but it isn’t going to work with me.”

Jake’s face hardened as he opened the door.

“And don’t try to get away without paying. I’ve seen your type before.”

Jake reached inside his trouser pocket and pulled out a five dollar bill.

“Are you trying to be smart? I can’t change a bill that size, and you know it – if that’s what your game is.”

The taxi driver, a 60-year old with a torn jacket that looked too small for him, rubbed his grey-stubble face. He didn’t like guys like this, and his coal-black eyes showed it.

“Keep the change,”

“This doesn’t look like any $5 bill I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s legal, I assure you. And keep the change.”

“Are you all right?”

Jake nodded. He was standing outside the cab and suddenly became aware that everything looked different. The passing cars were mostly black and old-looking, like something from the ‘20s or ‘30s. There were even a few horses pulling wagons.

“The cars?” said Jake.

“What about them?”

“They’re all so old. Is there an old car rally down here today?”

“Are you all right in the head? They’re the latest 1929 models.” The cab driver turned away, muttering to himself and shaking his head. “Old cars …”

Jake tried to smile. “Maybe you’re right,” he said, saluting the cab driver as he headed for the restaurant.

It was like walking into the past. There were ferns

and other potted plants all over the place. He didn’t have to wait long.

“Mr. Sharpe,” said one of the waiters, who spotted him the moment he entered. “You are early today. “Are you expecting anyone else to join you?”

Franz, an Australian by birth with a discreet smile, joined Delmonico’s shortly after the war to end all wars. Before long, he became known as one of the best waiters in New York.

He ca rried a white towel over his left arm and smiled as he seated Jake.

“You didn’t indicate whether you will be dining alone or with a guest,” he said with a slight bow. The bald spot on the back of his head shone in the overhead lights.

“I’m not sure. That is, I don’t quite remember.”

“Pardon, Mr. Sharpe. But you don’t seem to know me. Is everything all right? It’s me, Franz.”

“I think so, but my memory seems to have gone blank. Can you help me?”

“Of course, Mr. Sharpe.”

“What work do I do? And where?”

“You’re one of the top stockbrokers on Wall Street and a vice-president at Guardian Bank, just down the street a piece. Your clients swear by you.” Franz, who always spoke in whispers, paused for a few seconds. “Forgive me, Mr. Sharpe, may I suggest you see a doctor. If it were me, I would.” Another pause. “Let me get you something to clear your head.”

Jake nodded and caught Franz just as he was turning. “Could you kindly bring me a copy of today’s Wall Street Journal?”

Franz brought the newspaper almost immediately. Jeff looked at the masthead. There it was: The date: September 15, 1929. He was somehow living in the past. He wondered how. All he could recall was getting into a limo cab

and telling the driver to take him to the airport.

He glanced at yesterday’s closing prices. GM seemed to head for 90 dollars a share, with significant increases for U.S. Steel, Goldman Sachs, Morgan and Chase National. And another new high for the Dow.

Jake looked around him. The place was starting to fill up with early diners. Everyone seemed in a buoyant mood. Quite a few waved to him. He waved back, not quite sure what to do.

Franz returned a minute or two later. “Try this, Mr. Sharpe. It will help you feel better.”

He was right. Jake felt better almost immediately, but he still didn’t know how suddenly he found himself in this new world, or worse yet, how to behave.

A middle-aged man with a greying mustache waved to him and sat down opposite him a few seconds later. “Sorry about being late. Got held up at the office. How’s the market today,” he said without taking a breath. He looked at Jake’s drink. “Franz’s special pick-me-up. I could use one of those myself,” he added, waving to Franz, who seemed to have eyes in the back of his head.

“Prohibition is damn hard on guys like us.” He looked at Jake closely. “You look as though you’ve spent the night at a barrel house.”

“I’m not myself today, that’s for sure.”

“How’s the market today?” Harry Schwartz took another close look at Jake. “Or did you go in today?”

Jake shook his head and looked at the menu.

“I don’t know why you bother looking at the menu. You always end up ordering the same thing.” Schwartz sat back in his chair. He couldn’t get over the change in Jake. Almost everything was different about him. Even his suit. “Your suit. Is that the latest cut or what?”

“Just had this designed for me. Special. What do you think?”

“Like it, Let me know where you had it made, and I’ll get one myself.”

*** He found Guardian Bank with no trouble at all. “Just down the street,” the person he stopped told him. “On this side of the street.”

The brokerage offices were two floors up, and he stepped out into the reception area. It was like walking into a posh hotel lobby in Old Europe. White silk-covered sofas fronted book cases of leather-bound books while potted ferns were placed all around the area. The oak table at the centre was covered with today’s newspapers. He couldn’t believe the hushed atmosphere.

“Where have you been, Jake? The market’s going crazy, and just about every client you have has been calling for you,” said Tess Carruthers, a tall, shapely red head who liked to wear revealing blouses. “You don’t look as though you know me. I’m your secretary. Tess Carruthers, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Sorry, Tess. I had a rough night.”

“Elephant’s eyebrows,” she added with a knowing smile, passing him a handful of pink telephone slips.

Jake put them in his inside jacket pocket.

“And Mr. Goodwin wants to see you first thing.” She paused to look him over. “Where did you that suit?”

“Like it?”

“Absolutely affirmative.” You’d better see Mr. Goodwin first. He’s been on the warpath all day.”

Jake turned to go.

“What’s wrong with you, Jake? Mr. Goodwin’s office is this way.” She shook her head. “Must have been a night to remember.”

Tess was still trying to digest the change in him. Jake smiled as he opened the door to the executive suite.

Goodwin’s secretary spotted him almost immedi-

ately. “Thank God you’re here. He wants to see you as soon as you get in.”

“What’s it about?”

“Not sure, but he’s been buzzing me every 20 minutes or so to see if you’ve come in,” she said, knocking at Goodwin’s door.

“Mr. Sharpe is here, Mr. Goodwin.”

“What are you waiting for? Send him in.” Goodwin had a deep, authoritative voice that made secretaries break into tears, deep brown eyes, a dark, clean-shaven face, and a smile he reserved for well healed clients. He had that look now.

Goodwin waved him to the light blue chesterfield on the right side of his desk. “Had an unexpected visit from Alex Bluestein first thing this morning to tell me he’s moving his account to Goldman Sachs. I don’t mind telling you. He’s our largest account.

“I told him if he would give us a second chance, I would assign our best account executive to handle his investments.” He paused. “He believes the market is going to tank any day now and wants to cash out. Everything.”

Jake nodded. “Understood.”

“I told him you would see him today.” He took out a package of cigars from his inside pocket and passed one to Jake. “Just got a new batch from Cuba.” Then, rising from the chesterfield, “let me know what Bluestein says.”

***

“About time,” said Alex Bluestein. “I called on your Mr. Goodwin at nine this morning to tell him I was moving my account. He asked me to talk to you before I did. He also said it would be this morning.”

He took out a gold pocket watch and opened its case. “It is now 3.17 p.m.,” he said, emphasizing the p.m. “Is this the kind of service I can expect from you?”

Goldstein looked like a kindly grandfather, but it

was clear to Jake there was more used to walking over people with hob nail boots. Jake learned later that Goldstein had taken a small shop his father had started and turned it into a national powerhouse. Bluestein learned very early in the game that he had to be hard in everything he undertook to succeed.

Jake took a deep breath. “Sorry, Mr. Bluestein. I wasn’t feeling well this morning and had to see my doctor. But I am here now. And at your service.”

“Are you all right now?”

Jake nodded and went straight into business. “Let me start by asking you why you want to liquidate your entire portfolio and move your account to Sachs?”

“I believe the market cannot go on this way indefinitely and that there will be a day of reckoning sooner rather than later. I do not want to be invested when that day arrives.”

“Is this something you heard from Cason Eldridge?” Bluestein gave him a sharp look. “Why do you ask that?”

“I hear he’s about to issue a report to that effect three days from now.”

“You’re sharp – in name and what you know. I grant you that. What do you believe?”

“I believe the market will decline for a few days and then come roaring back. If I were handling our account, I would sell off your biggest holdings tomorrow and cherry-pick the best when the market goes down. You’ll make a lot of money doing this, and over a very short period of time.”

“And after that?”

“I’d be inclined to sell a lot of my holdings and covert them to T-Bills. I believe there will come a day after then when you’ll be able to buy stocks like GM at an unbelievable price.”

“Goodwin was right about you. You’re the man I’ve been looking for. When do we start?”

“Why not today?”

***

“I don’t know what you said to him, but he insists that you handle all his investments. And only you,” said Ambrose Goodwin when Jake returned to the office. “We’re having a few people in for a light supper tonight. I think it would be worth your while to join us.”

Jake left Goodwin’s office and looked for Tess. She was sitting on the edge of her desk. “I hear you’re the gnat’s whiskers in getting Bluestein to keep his account with us.” She smiled. “I have a few things for you to sign.” She entered the opened door and laid the papers on his desk.

“One thing more, a young woman by the name of Mona Saunders called a few times. She seemed quite anxious to see you.”

“Did she leave a number?”

Tess nodded. “If she calls again, tell her I’ll call her tomorrow.” Jake paused to smile. “I’ve been invited to a supper party at Goodwin’s tonight. I wouldn’t want to miss that for anything.”

“I like to get invitations like that.”

Jake ignored the comment. The question now, he thought, was where he did he live. He had an idea. He searched his desk and came up with a report. He put it in an envelope and gave it to Tess. “Would you send this to my home? I’d like to read it when I get home tonight.”

Tess wrote down his name and address and was about to call for a messenger when he stopped her. “I just thought. I need to go home and change for the supper party. I’ll take it with me.”

Jake took a cab, one of the new Model-Ts. It stopped in front of a walk-up brownstone. He buzzed for the janitor and explained he had lost his keys and asked for a tempo-

rary one until the janitor could get an extra made.

Ambrose Goodwin’s home was a 30-minute subway ride and a 10-minute taxi fare away. Goodwin’s butler, a man in his late 50s with a protruding stomach and grey hair and an undertaker’s voice, asked his name and led him into the drawing-room, where all of Guardian’s most wealthy clients were already sampling juice “cocktails.” Later, when the crowd thinned, gin was discreetly added to the cocktail juice mix.

Bluestein, who had been chatting with a handful of other senior business people, spotted Jake and headed in his direction. “Glad to see you here. It saves a call tomorrow. I’m having an informal get-together at my home tomorrow night. I’d like you to come and meet my friends and family.”

Bluestein’s mansion had 12 bedrooms, six toilets, and a receiving room as large as a football field. He edged slowly into the receiving room but hung back a bit, waiting for Bluestein to finish talking to three other men.

“So you’re the whiz kid my father’s been talking about. In fact, about nothing else,” said a tallish young woman with chestnut hair and wide hazel eyes, ruby red lips and a wide smile.” She intertwined his arm in hers. “Let me introduce you around. I’m Gail Bluestein, by the way.”

After chatting for an hour or more, drinking lemon aid without any bootleg gin, he had picked up five new clients. Bluestein had done such a selling job on him that he didn’t even need to ask for their business.

“Well, Jake,” said Bluestein when the dinner was winding down,” I hope you enjoyed tonight. I always look out for those who look out for me.” And then, in an almost different voice: “What do you think of Gail?”

For the first time in his life, Jake didn’t know what to say.

“She’s a good girl, but she’s running with a new crowd these days. I hear they’re taking drugs.” He paused. “I’d like to see her with someone with some substance to them.”

***

“You’re one of the most intoxicating, mysterious and frustrating men I’ve ever met,” said Gail Bluestein as he sat down beside her. “I know I shouldn’t say these things, but when I’m with you, I can’t help myself.” She leaned forward. “The bank’s open, so kiss me.”

Jake didn’t know quite what to say. He just looked into her eyes, smiled and kissed her on the cheek.

“A group of us are having an impromptu get-together tonight. You’re invited – if you want to come. It’ll be an experience you’ll never forget.”

“I have a meeting at five that could go to seven or even eight.”

Hail shrugged. “If you’re up for it, wait for me outside your brown house at 8.30. Don’t be late. I’m always on time, especially for someone like you.”

***

“Hello, Jake,” said the sultry voice on the phone. “It’s Gail Bluestein. I hope you don’t mind me calling you at work. But I would like very much if you would take over my account as well. Perhaps if you’re free, we could go over my portfolio. My father is always after me about being serious and doing something with my life.”

“Of course, Miss Bluestein. Shall we say noon at Delmonico’s?”

“I have a better idea, Jake. What about my private club?” She gave him the address and hung up.

Wait until Goodwin hears about this, he thought. This should be worth a few hundred in his Christmas bo-

nus. He smiled to himself and dialled Mona’s number.

“Are we still on for lunch?” There was a note of urgency in her voice.

“Can’t today. What about supper?”

Mona didn’t respond for 30 seconds. “Where and what time?”

***

Jake had no problem finding Mona Saunders. He picked out the most beautiful woman in the restaurant, who was sitting alone.

“What’s the urgency?” he said as he sat down opposite her.

“You look different somehow. Can’t quite put my finger on it. Just different,” Mona said with a faint southern accent. “Yesterday, you told me you were thinking about ending your life. But today, you’ve got a bounce to your step, and you speak with a different accent.”

Mona was Dr. Mona Saunders, a consulting psychologist, who, it would appear, had been recommended to him. Looking at her now, he made a mental note to thank whoever it was.

“In all my years as a practising psychologist, I’ve never seen anyone quite like you. At war with yourself one day, and the next, someone on top of the world.” She gave him one of the most beautiful smiles he had ever seen. “What happened?”

Her long black hair wasn’t in style, but it framed her thin face and large oval eyes in a way that suggested fire under her calm, professional manner.

Jake thought he’d take a chance. “Everything we talk about is confidential between you and me. Right?”

Mona nodded. “You never asked that before. What’s this about, Jake? Did you murder someone? “

“Please bear with me, and I’ll explain it all in the next few minutes.”

“You can tell me anything. Whatever passes between us is strictly between us, and no one else.”

They had met at an Italian restaurant in Greenwich Village, where the waiters sang Italian opera arias and served spicy spaghetti. It was her favourite place in New York. “I’ve been worried about you,” she said in a soft, cooing voice.

“Before I begin, tell me why I was seeing you.”

She cocked her head and tried to smile. This was new to her, and she wasn’t sure what she was going to hear next. “You’ve been going through a major depression. When we saw each other yesterday, you were thinking about committing suicide.”

Jake nodded reassuringly. “Why was I depressed?”

“You’ve been in the dumps over the stock market and when it’s going to crash. Crash is your word, by the way, not mine.”

“Let me put your concern to rest. I am no longer worried. I know precisely when it will crash and how to handle it and make a lot of money for my clients and me.”

“You know?” Mona sat back with a wry smile.

Jake nodded again. “What I’m going to tell you now is strictly between you and me, right?” He paused, not quite sure how to begin.

“I’m from the future.” He said back, feeling better for sharing his secret. He checked her face for any reaction. There wasn’t any.

“I can imagine what you’re thinking, but it’s true. From the next century, in fact.”

Still no reaction.

“I got into a limo and was on my way to the airport and found myself being driven to Delmonico’s instead in a soft-topped 1929 Model-T that had a spare tire carried on its running board. It’s been a merry-go-round trying to put the pieces together and fit into a personality I know nothing

“Two days ago,”

“You seem to have lost your obsession with the stock market.”

“That’s because I know when the market will selloff, even to the hour.”

“You’re sure this isn’t something you’ve dreamed. Dreams can be quite realistic sometimes.”

“Tell you what.” He paused to think how to frame what he was going to say. “Carson Eldridge – he’s a big name forecaster on Wall Street – is going to issue a report in two days, stating that the market is oversold and is going to crash, sooner rather than later. There will be a sell-off in the market right afterwards before going up again a few days later. I’m getting my clients to sell and short the market tomorrow. When this happens, will you believe me then?”

Mona smiled and extended her hand as if to confirm a bet.

“One thing more. I want to stop seeing you as a psychologist and start seeing you as a friend.”

“You’re full of surprises today.”

***

Gail Bluestein, dressed in a short light blue dress and a hair style that made her blonde hair bounce on her shoulders, was waiting for him when he opened the front door and danced down the stairs.

“I thought you were going to leave me hanging.”

“Couldn’t imagine that in a thousand years,’ he said, sliding in the passenger of her convertible.

“How do you like my breezer?” She flashed a smile as the wind picked up her hair. “Get ready for the time of your life,” she added, putting the car into first gear and heading out into the traffic.

Twenty minutes later, they were in another world,

down garbage-lined streets of low-rise tenements and the smell of rotting vegetables and stagnant pools of dirty water.

“Where are we?”

“Patience. Hotsy-Totsy. We’ll be there in a few minutes.” She reached out and touched his face. ”Wait until the others see you.”

“Your friends. What do they do?”

“They’re not Dumb Doras, if that’s what you’re thinking. They’re dewdroppers like me. Some of us help poor children in neighbourhoods like these. Can you imagine that one of them has never seen a movie or ever hand a ride in a car.”

She pulled up in front of what had been a mansion that hadn’t seen a lick of paint in decades. Unlike other houses on the street, it was set at least 100 feet from the road, surrounded by a metal fence decorated with iron chains.

“This is it?”

Gail nodded and touched his face again. “Wait until you see the inside before you make up your mind.”

“You’ll like the leader of our little group – Jordan Horowitz.” She paused. “He speaks to the dead and things like that.”

Jake wondered looked at her and wondered what he had got himself into. She slid her arm in his as they walked down the cracked cement walkway. Gail used a mallet to strike a gong to announce our presence. A minute later, the door was opened by a tall, thin man with a goatee, dressed in a black suit and a black shirt.

“You’re late,” he said in a deep voice, looking at Jake. “Who, I pray, is this?”

“A friend. He’s looking forward to meeting you and the others.”

He led them inside. Couples were sitting on cushions or the carpeted floor, sharing reefers with their partners and

kissing. “It’s better than a petting pantry,” she whispered as they found space near two other couples.

The smoke in the main room created a blue haze, making it almost impossible to tell exactly who you were sitting next to.

Jordan sat cross-legged in the centre of the room under blue light. “Any volunteers?” he said in a booming voice.

Several young women stood. “Pick me. Pick me,” soon became a chorus. Jordan looked beyond them and pointed to Jake.

“What’s this all about, Gail?”

“It’s quite an honour, Jake. It’s a great experience. You’ll love it and will want to do it again.”

Everyone was clapping and urging him to stand. Jake looked across the room and saw that everyone was looking at him. He stood, and the clapping and laughter grew louder. Jordan was smoothing his goatee as Jake stumbled over his legs on his way to the centre of the room. Jordan raised his hands, and the room suddenly went silent.

“It’s time to take us on the future,” said Jordan as Jake stood opposite him. “Since you’re new to our little community, let me explain. I will place this helmet over your head. You won’t see, but watch what happens when I strike the tuning fork on top of the helmet with my Progenitor wand to set everything in motion. Everything that has happened in the past is still vibrating around us. The tuning fork will pick that up as well as the vibrations of time yet to come. Understand?’

Jake nodded as Jordan placed the helmet over his head, covering his eyes and nose in the process.

“Now pick a date in the future. Any date, as long as it is more than ten years from now.”

Jake, feeling a bit of a devil, announced, “I choose Dec. 7, 1941”.

Jordan touched the tuning fork with his wand. The tuning fork made a humming noise before drifting off into silence. “Now, relax. Let your mind relax to pick up the vibrations from the future. After you’ve had time to transit the future, tell us what you see.”

About five minutes later, Jordan announced the time had come for the group members to ask Jake what he sees.

“What are the hair styles like in ’41?” said a low voice that sounded a lot like Gail’s.

“I can’t tell you. Everything is crazy here,” Jake said in a slow voice. “I’m in Hawaii. People are running in all directions. Bombs are falling in the harbour. I see two, no three, no four ships on fire, including the Arizona, and explosions all over the place.”

“This can’t be happening. Who would dare bomb our battleships?”

“Japan. Yes, Japan, I can see the markings on their planes.”

“I, for one, don’t believe it. Are you trying to tell us we are at war with Japan?” Jordan had lost his confidence. “Why are you saying these things?”

“Is it? You asked me what I saw, and I am telling you what I saw.” Jake paused. “That helmet of yours has more power than you were not aware of.”

There was uneasiness in the room that wasn’t there before.

“How do you know this?” said Jordan

“It’s only what I saw. Someone else might see something quite different.”

“You’ve ruined it for all of us,” said one of the women.

“Not really. I’ll put the helmet back on, and someone can pick another date for me.”

“What about 1951?” said Gail.

“Go chase yourself,” said another voice.

Jordan He paused and looked at Gail. “Don’t bring him here again.”

The gathering broke up shortly after that. Gail was still high as they headed for her car, laughing and holding onto his arm for support. “Jordan needed that,” she added, laughing again.

“I’d better drive,” said Jake. ***

“What on earth are you doing to Guardian Bank?” said Goodwin. “You’re liquidating Bluestein’s and his daughter’s accounts as though there were no tomorrow, while the rest of us are doing our level best to make our investors feel confident about the market.”

Jake sat down and tried on a reassuring smile. “They’ll be buying back and in spades a few days from now. Guardian National will be getting hefty fees in both transactions.”

Goodwin was about to say something but shook his head instead. “I hope your right, Jake,” he added as he left Jake’s office.

Gail Bluestein was waiting for him at reception. They hadn’t spoken since he had driven her home.

“Haven’t heard a peep out of you since we left Jordan’s sala. Is anything wrong? I felt we had an understanding.” Her blue eyes never left his face while she waited for a reply.

Jake raised his eyebrows. “You know, Gail, you really shouldn’t be going to places like Jordan’s. It’s just a front to sell marijuana, which is against the law and gets you in trouble with the police. When they raid the place, and you’re found in it, you’ll end up in jail.”

“You’re not much fun,” she smiled coquettishly. You sound more like my father than a Sheik. My other male friends think it’s the cat’s pyjamas.”

“I don’t. Could you imagine what would happen to my business if I were ever found there by the police, or how would your father react if you were found there with me? You owe us at least that.”

“I like the us part.” Then, in a coquettish voice: “Tell me you’re free for supper.”

“I’d love to, but tomorrow’s a big day on the market, and I need to prepare for it

***

“You’re a marvel, Jake,” said Bluestein. “Just as you said, Carson Eldridge released his report and the market’s gone crazy. You’ve saved me a lot of money today, and I won’t forget that.” He paused for a split second. “You won’t forget to tell me when to get back in.”

“Depend on it,” said Jake, hanging up.

Tess Carruthers knocked discreetly and entered with a fist full of pink slips of investors seeking his advice whether to sit tight or sell. “Tell them to sell immediately and send that message to all my accounts.”

Tess cocked her head, letting her curly red hair fall over her shoulder. “Mr. Goodwin is recommending his accounts to stay put.” Then, after a discreet pause: “Your friend Mona would like you to call her.” ***

“It’s been a hellava day,” said Jake, looking into Mona Saunders’ grey eyes. He noted she was using his first name for the first time and smiled. “Great to see you again.”

“How did you know, Jake? And don’t tell me it’s because you’re from the future.”

“But I am.” His eyes pleaded with her eyes. “I truly am. Tell you what. The end of October is almost a month away. I’m going to make another prediction. If this comes true, will you believe me then?

“And above all, have faith in me. And do what I plan to do. I can do the same things for you if you let me.”

“Do what?”

“Three days before the crash, I plan to sell every piece of stock I own, and the next day, short the market for all it’s worth. Then, after the market has levelled off, I’ll cover my position. I expect to walk away with millions, which I’ll use to buy real estate in New York City and gradually buy back the best dividend-paying blue chips.”

He paused to see how she was reacting to his suggestion. “I could do the same for you.”

Mona didn’t know what to say. She knew his reputation as a stock market phenomenon, but this was a bit over the top.

She didn’t need to respond. Jake could see it in her eyes. “At least sell when I tell you to.”

“OK. Sell my stocks when you sell yours— but shorting the market. That’s something else. Sorry.”

It doesn’t matter, Mona. It’s just because I want good things for you.” He paused, wondering if he should tell her this. “Bad times are coming. The stock market is just part of it.”

Jake was on the phone when Goodwin opened the door and sat down opposite him. He ended the call and stood.

“Sit down, Jake. I’m here to congratulate you on the way you handled Bluestein and his account. He’s raving about you. Even about appointing you and me to his board of directors. He says you tipped him off about Carson Eldridges’s report and followed your advice to the letter. I don’t mind telling you I thought you had lost it when you advised Bluestein to sell everything.”

He reached into his inside suit jacket and pulled out a pouch of five cigars. “Tell me, Jake, how did you know Carson Eldridge was going to release his report and what it was going to say?”

“One of my contacts head about it and let me know.”

“Not important.” Goodwin lit a cigar. “Bluestein is telling all his friends about you. We’ve had more than a dozen calls already. Expect us to express our thanks in a significant way in your Christmas bonus.”

***

“It’s Carson Eldridge, Mr. Sharpe. I need to talk to you,” he said in a smooth, even voice, pausing for the question Jake dreaded and knew it was coming. “How did you come to know when I was going to release my report and what was in it? Was it one of my employees? Please tell me. I need to know.”

“No, it wasn’t, Mr. Eldridge. I do not know a single one of your employees or anyone connected to your firm.”

“What about my printer?”

“Again, I’m sorry I can’t help you. I don’t even know who your printer is. I’m prepared to swear that and everything I’ve said in court if need be.”

“I asked Ambrose Goodwin about you, and he tells me you’re a straight shooter.” Another pause. “Then how did you find out, if you don’t mind my asking.”

Jake took a deep breath. “On the subway. It was rush hour. I was standing next to two men talking about the market when I heard them talking about your report. Naturally, I listened to everything they said.”

He swatted at a late summer fly that flew around his office before landing on the face of the clock on the opposite wall while waiting for Eldridge to continue. “Then, it still could be one of my people.”

Shake shook his head without thinking. “Somehow, I don’t think so.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“They were carrying lunch pails. And besides, who knows what report they were talking about.” He hoped he

sounded believable when he hung up.

“What’s bothering you, Jake? This is the second time you’ve stopped dictating,” said Tess as she held up her pencil.

“Just thinking.” He lapsed into silence again. “We’ll continue this later. I need to handle something first.”

There was something else, Jake kept thinking. He was sure there was another sell-off before the crash in late October. Jake looked out the window and shook his head. He hated moments like this. His mind went back to Mona for some reason. They were meeting next week. He checked his calendar. Nothing there either. What was happening to him? He was usually good at remembering things. His mother used to say he had the memory of an elephant. Maybe it was Gail Bluestein, who called him every morning and afternoon and seeing her off and on for lunch. He was beginning to think about her more than he had dared.

He gave up and reached for the phone and dialled Mona’s number . No answer. Perhaps if he got a coffee and calld them after, he couldn’t slip now and see all his credibility go down the drain. He returned just as his phone started ringing.

“I had a feeling it was you who had called a few minutes ago. Is anything wrong?” Mona said in her usual calm, professional and reassuring voice.

“Just wondering if we still on for next week. We are, aren’t we?”

“Yes, on Wednesday, the 23rd. Same place, I hope.” She never tired of hearing opera while she dined, and hoped Jake did, too.”

Yes, he suddenly recalled. Something about the 23rd or 24th. Another sell-off. But which day? Then it came to him— the utilities. There would be a report downgrading

utilities that carried the market with it. He decided to wait until Tuesday and get a feel of things then. If there weren’t any big sales, he’d pull out all of his client’s holdings then.

***

Mona eyed him carefully. “You don’t look as upbeat as you did when we last met. Anything wrong?”

Jake shook his head. “Just want you to know the market will go down tomorrow. A lousy report on utilities. The market is getting very skittish, and anything can set it off.

“I thought you said late October.”

Jake reached for a cigarette and knocked over his water glass in the process. “Let’s call it setting the stage for the main event.”

“And you don’t think I should sell yet?”

Jake shook his head. Their waiter approached with a bottle of Rosé. Mona nodded and watched Jake as the wine was uncorked. “You know, Jake, I’m beginning to believe you. Notice what I’m saying. I’m beginning.”

“You said you wanted to tell me something. Is that it?”

Mona smiled and reached across the table for his hand. “My mother wants me to come home for a few days. She’s ailing and fears she is going to pop off one day soon. I disagree. She’s healthier and crankier now than she ever was. But I did promise to come and, perhaps, bring a friend.”

She paused to look in his eye. “You need to get away from the stock market and all the calls for a couple of days. Maine is wonderful at this time of the year.”

She squeezed his hand. Jake smiled back.

***

“Mona tells me you are a stockbroker on Wall Street, Mr. Sharpe,” said Meredith Saunders, trying the rise from

her armchair. Jake reached out to help her, but she brushed him off. “I’m a very independent woman, Mr. Sharpe.”

She reached out for her cane to steady herself. “You have soft hands for a man, Mr. Sharpe. There is much kindness in your touch. I think you would make a good husband for my daughter.”

“Really, mother,” said Mona, who called out from the dining room. “Besides, lunch is ready.”

Meredith Saunders sat at the head of the table, with Jake and Mona on each side next to her. “Mona tells me you have a special gift for picking stocks and reading the stock market. I’m an old woman, Mr. Sharpe, and I’ve seen all this happen before. Usually, badly. For a lot of people. As a result I have come to distrust the stock market and the people who sell stocks.” She paused to scan his face and his blue eyes in a way that made you feel she was looking into your soul.

Jake shivered and tried to smile. Mona, who was taking it all in, just smiled.

Then, quite unexpectedly: “I have $1,800, young man. It is all I have, and I am entrusting it all to you.” She managed a weak smile. “I trust my daughter’s judgement.”

“Mother trusts you, Jake,” said Mona as Jake helped her with the dishes. She doesn’t trust many people, but she trusts you. Please don’t let her down.”

Later, after a walk in the woods behind the house, picking apples from low-lying branches and laughing as Mona recounted her mother’s adventures after her father died, he reached out and kissed her.

***

Tess walked into his office without knocking. “Gail Bluestein is waiting for you at reception. Shall I tell her you’re tied up with clients and can’t see her right now?” There was a hint of anger in her voice.

“What’s wrong, Tess? Something’s bothering you. What?”

“Nothing.” She turned away from him. “ It’s just that you pay attention to every female but me.”

“It’s not that I don’t find you very attractive. I do, But it’s against company policy.”

“That’s not what you told me a month ago when we went dancing. It didn’t seem to bother you then.”

She headed for the door. “What should I tell Miss Bluestein?”

***

The day finally arrived. Oct. 23, two days before the start of the big crash. He dialled Mona’s number. “This is the day. There will be a big sell-off two days from now. The market will lose 11%, followed by a rally on the next day. Keep it under your hat. Just to let you know, I’m selling all your holdings and shorting your account as well. I know you don’t feel comfortable about this – but trust me, two weeks from now, you will be a wealthy lady. And so will be your mother.”

Mona swallowed hard. “Are we seeing each other on the weekend?”

“Sorry, Mona. I’m going to be besieged with clients thinking the end of the world has come, especially after the margin calls start going out.”

“Understood.”

He had barely settled back with Goodwin was at his door. “Have you taken leave of your senses? I understand that you have placed sell orders for all your client’s holdings as well as your own, and shorting the market for a million dollars, which you don’t have, let me remind you.”

Jake stood. He had prepared for this conversation for days. “I know this sounds reckless, but I promise you it is anything but. In fact, I promise that if I am wrong in any way, I’m prepared to start buying everything back in

Goodwin turned, muttering to himself. He suddenly looked 15 years older.

“You should do the same,” Jake said as Goodwin opened the door.

“I’m not that stupid.” The door slammed behind him.

He suddenly felt dizzy and flopped back into his chair. Whatever it was passed a few seconds later, Jake put it down to the giddy, surreal happenings of the past few days.

***

The market had barely opened when Bluestein called. “I’m holding tight, just as you said, Jake. I don’t know how you do it, and I’m not asking how. Will there be a recovery, and should I buy in then? I’m a little nervous about those shorts.”

Jake sat back in his chair. “Mr. Bluestein,” he said in an authoritative voice, “yes, the market will recover tomorrow but do not buy in under any circumstances. I know what I’m doing, and don’t, I beg you, take any action on your own.”

Tess waltzed in. “You’re the talk of the street, Jake. “I hear some of the other brokers at other firms are hounding their traders, almost by the minute, to find out what you’re doing next.”

Jake decided not to say anything and smiled.

“What did you say to him? Fire was breathing out of his nostrils when he walked into your office. He’s a lot quieter today and looking grey.

“I told him I would buy back everything if I were wrong. He didn’t like it, but I hope he won’t try to second guess me in the future.”

“What should I do, Jake?”

“If there’s an uptick in the market, short GM.”

“How much?”

“As much as you can afford.”

“You’re a real darling, Jake. And a real Sheik.” By the time trading had stopped for the day, the market had dropped 13%, just as he knew it would. He was tired and couldn’t bear another call when the phone jiggled again. He picked it up out of habit.

“Jake. It’s Mona. I know you must be exhausted. But I just heard. The market’s down. Way down...” A pause. “Love you, Jake.”

***

“What kind of crystal ball do you have, Jake? And where do I buy one, exactly like yours?” said Gib Fontaine, a broker for one of the other houses and a frequent lunch companion at Delmonico’s.

Gib had a fat face with sagging jowls that shook when he laughed. “Seriously, Jake. Have you got some new kind of system that can forecast market moves? Or what?”

“Nothing, Really, Gib. Nothing. Just using my common sense.”

“What about Eldridge’s letter?”

“Pure luck.” He paused. “The market has gone up 120% over the past four years. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that stock prices are way, way overvalued. It’s Tulip Mania all over again when investors are bidding up tulip bulb prices higher and higher for months when one morning they suddenly found prices going down day after day until they reached the right price for tulip bulbs. Same with stocks.”

“So when will we hit bottom?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, Gib.”

They left together. Gib was breathing hard for some reason. “I don’t know what to do, Jake. They’ve called in my margins.”

Gail Bluestein snuggled close to him in the cab. “You’re not taking me to one of those weird places again, are you?”

It was a week after the big crash, and Jake was on top of the world. He thought about Gib for a flash of a second and decided to call him later.

Her blonde hair bounced off her shoulders as she shook her head. “It’s a surprise. And don’t ask me anything more and ruin things.”

The cab stopped in front of the Waldorf. Gail linked her arm in his and led him into the lobby. “Now,” she said, turning with a serious smile on her face, “close your eyes and don’t open them until I tell you.”

It seemed to Jake it was like a block away when she told him: “You can open your eyes now.”

Everyone in the room was standing and clapping and shouting his name. A four-piece band on the right side of the room suddenly came alive with one of his favourites.

“We owe you everything,” said Alex Bluestein. “Yes, everything,” added one of his other clients. Seconds later, all his clients surrounded him, patting him on the back and slipping $100 bills into his coat pocket.

Suddenly, the band struck up again at a signal from Gail, and her father asked for silence: “We came here tonight to honour someone who has saved our lives. Too many people didn’t. They didn’t have Jake to keep them safe.”

He turned to Jake. “We can’t possibly repay you for what you’ve done for us. We didn’t know what to do for you. Gail suggested an around-the-world cruise for two.” He reached into his suit pocket and placed it in Jake’s hands.

***

Mona drove up in her new car. “I want you to be the first person who drives with me in my new breezer,” she said, opening the door for him. Jake slid in and threw his

bags in the back seat of the convertible.

“My bags are packed at home. I’ll store my car there while we’re away. We can take a cab from there to the docks. London, here we come.”

Jake sat back and closed his eyes. For the first time in his life, he felt free. It was like being a boy again. No cares. No worries.

That’s when he started to feel sick to his stomach. A cold sweat and feeling he couldn’t swallow. Mona glanced at him. “You look terrible, Jake. You’re white as a ghost.”

“I feel sick to my stomach. It’ll pass. Keep on.”

“I don’t think so, Jake,” she said, turning the car at the first section. “We’re near a hospital. I want someone to check you over before we go anywhere.”

A few minutes later, he was lying on a stretcher. “You won’t be going anywhere soon,” said the doctor, who had just given him a shot of morphine. “You’re having a heart attack. You need critical care.”

“What about a bypass?”

“What is he talking about?” he said to Mona. “He’s from the future. It hasn’t been invented yet.”

The Queen’s Necklace

THE QUEEN’S NECKLACE is part fiction and part fact and introduces the Count de Saint-Germain, who becomes a familiar figure in Dipper DeGrace mysteries.

—JIM CARR

The Queen’s Necklace

“Someone is following me wherever I go, and I’m afraid for my life,” said the young voice on the other side of the confessional.

“L’Abbé Denys DeGrace leaned closer. “Is there a reason for this?”

Then, after a few moments. “Yes. I have no one else I dare talk about this, Father.”

“What is the real reason?”

“There is a plot to dupe the Queen into buying the famous necklace everyone is talking about, and even talk about killing her as well,” said the young voice.

“Go on.”

“You are the Queen’s confessor, are you not? She needs to be advised to take an extended holiday far from Versailles for a few months. Bad things are brewing. I hear

it everywhere,”

“L’Abbé DeGrace, who had been the queen’s confessor since she came to Paris to marry the Dauphin, liked him at first sight – his greying beard and kind face and cornflower blue eyes – and most of all, she trusted him.

“I will see what can be done, my son,” he said, suddenly aware the other side of the confessional was empty.

There were three other confessions before he emerged from the confessional, still not sure what to do.

***

Marie Antoinette and three of her favourites were laughing at a joke they had just been told by Le Comte de Saint-Germain – a tall, mysterious man in his late 40s who favoured dark suits and shoes that sparkled with jewels. Women liked him, and he made them laugh with his endless stream of jokes. No one knew where he came from or the source of his enormous wealth. The Queen sought his counsel frequently, especially on fashion matters and what jewels to wear.

L’Abbé,” said Marie Antoinette, beckoning him to join her and her little group. He nodded to the Count, even though he knew little about him. “He’s fabulously wealthy,” she described him when he first arrived at court a couple of years earlier.

She laughed at another of his jokes and paused to ask L’Abbé his opinion about a string of pearls the Count had just given her.

“The count has been encouraging me to buy the necklace all Paris is talking about. What do you think, Monseigneur?”

He paused for a few seconds. “Unfortunately, Votre Majesté, I am a poor priest who no knowledge of these things.”

“You’re avoiding my question. I can only assume

you don’t feel comfortable about it. As my confessor, what would you recommend?”

“The only jewels worth anything are those you store up in heaven.” He paused for a few seconds. “But I do need to talk to you. Something has come up that I feel you should be aware of.”

“The Comte is in our confidence. You can speak freely to him. The Comte has our best interests at heart. He just finished telling me that Paris has become unsafe and suggests Louis and I should leave the city for the time being.”

She paused to pat down a whisp of her bright gold hair and glance at the mirror. She was never happy about her thin face and pinched mouth. She turned, and her hair gleamed brilliantly in the sunlight from the window behind her.

“Perhaps, another time, Votre Majesté.”

“You need not go on my account, Monseigneur. I was just about to leave.” The Count bowed to kiss her hand. “With your kind permission, Votre Majesté”

“We will miss you at court.”

“Now, what was so important that you could not tell me in the Count’s presence?”

“I have heard rumours that someone is planning to steal the necklace you are considering.”

“Set your mind at rest, Monseigneur. I have absolutely no interest in buying that or any other necklace. France cannot afford it.” She paused. “There’s something else, I believe.”

“I agree with the Count. Talk has also come to my ears that your life may be in danger as well.”

“Nous vous remercions, Monseigneur. But my place is here with my husband.”

For the first time, he was frustrated and didn’t know what to do. One thing he could do was keep the Queen away from charlatans like the so-called Comte de Saint-Germain.

He took his leave a few minutes later, almost bumping into Charles Auguste Bohmer, the court jeweller, who created the necklace he was hoping the Queen would buy.

Bohemer had an idea when he saw her, standing alone and looking at the Queen, who was chatting with two of her favourites. Laporte had told him she was petitioning the Queen for an increase in her pension and a friend of the Queen's. He approached her with a smile.

But Jeanne de la Motte-Valois wasn’t taken in. She had sharp eyes and prided herself on her astuteness despite her circumstances. Bohmer had the same look in his eyes as her husband – the face of someone who had given up.

“May I speak to you on a delicate, confidential matter, Madame de la Comtesse.”

Jeanne opened her dark, smouldering eyes and smiled. “By all means, M. Bohmer.”

Bohmer smiled. “You are too kind, Madame La Comtesse. But talking to you know gives me an idea,”

He paused to search her eyes before continuing. “I have a diamond necklace that was ordered for the lady by the King. Bless his soul,” he said, crossing himself.

“For Madame du Barry,” said Jeanne.

“You have a quick mind, Madame La Comtesse.” He took a deep breath. “You seem to have a special rapport with Sa Majesté.”

This was news to Jeanne, who had been trying to get an audience with her for months. She smiled with her eyes. “I would not go that far, M. Bohmer.”

Bohmer ignored her comment. “I have a proposal. “The Queen seems adverse to the idea.” He paused to offer a smile that showed two gold teeth that reflected the candlelight. “Even though it would make her the envy of every other queen in the world. And the King has suggested I create something exquisite for her to mark the birth of the Dauphin.”

Another strategic pause. “If you could help her see the necklace in a different light, that it is the gift of the people of France, and help her change her mind, there would be a commission. Large enough to change your life forever.”

***

“You,” said Jeanne. “Somehow, I’m not surprised,” looking at the masked figure, who was waiting for her before the fireplace at an inn on the outskirts of Paris.

“I hope you’re not disappointed. I have been looking forward to this moment for months,” he said with a smile and taking off his mask.

Jeanne offered him a smile that implied more. “You’re the talk of the court. Everyone is wondering about the source of your great wealth.”

Wealth interests you, Comtesse?”

“If you don’t have any, it always interests you.”

I have a proposition to make. Hear me out before making up your mind.” He reached out to find her hand. “You’re a very beautiful lady.”

She didn’t respond. The Count’s eyes seemed to take control of her thoughts and made her feel vulnerable somehow.

“Let me tell you what I know about you – and why I think you’re the best person, I know for what I am planning.”

A waiter appeared out of nowhere and filed their glasses with dark, fruit-flavoured wine. She sipped it slowly, watching how his hands moved here and there without seeming purpose.

“I know you’ve taken a lover, a certain Rétaux de Vilette, who is also known as a master forger.”

She was about the protest, but he held up his hand.

“Hear me out. We can use this gentleman’s talents. I also know you are on familiar terms with the Cardinal of

France, Prince Louis de Rohan, one of France's richest men. I salute you.”

Jeanne tossed her head to let her chestnut hair cover the right side of her face. She leaned forward. “Go on.”

“I have a plan. And I am in a position to make you a very wealthy woman. I understand jeweller Bohemer made a proposition to you. Agree to it. This way, you’ll be getting 100,000 livres plus an even more significant amount from me.

“Interested?”

“Go on.”

“Cardinal Rohan needs a favour from the Queen, but he is persona non grata as far as Her majesty is concerned. He is desperate to find a way to get into her good graces. That makes him vulnerable to what I have in mind.

“S’îl Vous plaît, Madame, listen carefully to what I say next because you wi ll not see me again until you and your friends have completed their work and are ready to share the spoils.”

“What if I see you at court?”

“You won’t. As far as everyone else is concerned, including your associates, I have left France for good.

He suddenly became earnest. “Let me go on. Your job is to give your good friend, Cardinal Rohan, the idea that you have the ear of the Queen, and when the time is right, show him a couple of letters you received from the Queen.”

“What letters? She has not received me at court.”

“Letters you will write to yourself and have them forged in the Queen’s hand by your lover. After a week, show him another letter from the Queen, in which she says she would love to have the famous necklace but can’t afford it because of the economic situation in France.

“Then, another letter from the Queen, in which she confides that if the Cardinal were to help buy it for her, she

would be happy to grant his requests. If he agrees, you will then arrange a meeting with the Queen and hear it from her lips.”

Jeanne, now wide-eyed, was about to say that was impossible but was stopped by his upraised palm.

“I have found an actress who looks like the Queen and can mimic her voice. For what I have in mind, it will be dark enough that the Cardinal won’t be able to tell the difference.

“One final thing. As soon as the Cardinal agrees, send immediately for Bohemer. Immediately. Let me say again. Immediately. Have him in waiting, if need be. And take possession of the necklace. Tell the Cardinal you will take it to the Queen.”

He rose and looked at her with admiration. “I would like to stay longer and get better acquainted but, alas, the affairs of business wait upon me.” He bent and kissed her hand. “Until then.”

“But wait. How will I know how to reach you once I have the necklace and get my reward?”

“I will know within minutes when you have the necklace in your possession.”

***

Prince Louis de Rohan. Cardinal of France pushed back his chair and rose to greet her with a smile that suggested other things. He kissed her cheek and led to by the hand to the divan in front of the fireplace that crackled with new flames.

“A pleasant surprise, Madame La Comtesse. To what do I owe the honour of your presence?’

Her eyes smiled at him, aware of the physical power she held over him. “I have missed your smile, Eminence, and the touch of your hand.”

Rohan reached out and took her hand, letting it linger on her leg before touching her face. “I have missed you,

too, ma petite.”

Jeanne smiled. “And I, you, Eminence.” She dropped her eyes and took a deep breath.

“What is it, Jeanne?”

“The Queen, bless her,” she said finally with a sigh. “She is torn between what she must do for France and M. Boheme’s constant pleas to sell her the famous necklace created for Madame du Barry.” She paused. “She keeps asking me what to do, and I am not sure what to tell her.”

“Then let me think about this for you. As you know, I am in great disfavour with Sa Majesté, but I will do my best to come up with the best advice I can give.” He put his arm around her and kissed her on the lips. ***

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Jeanne,” said her husband.

“Leave that to me, Nicholas,” she said, watching him place his sword by the fireplace. “Someone has to find a way to improve our finances, and it’s obvious that it’s up to me.”

She reached for his hand and squeezed it. “I’m sorry, Nicholas. I know you’re trying, and my hopes that the Queen might help us aren’t going to happen. She has yet to acknowledge me at court.”

“She’ll come around.” Nicholas’ blue eyes still had hope in them.

Jeanne shrugged and turned away. One day, she thought, she’ll pay. One way or another. She smiled and made a note not to tell Nicholas anything more.”

***

Réteux de Villette glanced in the mirror. He loved the way his pencil-thin moustache made him look dashing.

“I have been waiting for you all day,” he said, as he opened the door, “kissing the palm of her hand and letting his eyes rest on her low-cut gown.

“Not now, Rétaux. I need your help for something important.”

“You have but to ask,” he said in a smooth, velvety voice, withdrawing his hand and sitting down in the chair opposite her. He prided himself on understanding her moods before she did. It was her eyes, he thought. Always her dark eyes that made promises that were rarely kept in recent weeks.

“I have several documents that I will need you to copy in the hand of the Queen.”

“What’s this about, Jeanne?”

“It’s better if you don’t know, Rétaux. All you need to know there will be a lot of money in this for you.”

Rétaux smiled, sensing he had the upper hand for the first time since they had become lovers.

Jeanne’s dark, smouldering eyes searched his face. “Perhaps, you would like a down payment.”

***

“I have two letters from the Queen that might interest you.” Jeanne reached inside her blouse and withdrew two sheets of paper.

The Cardinal kissed her hand and took the letters. His hands shook as he placed two silver candlesticks on the table next to his divan, where he invited her to sit next to him. He seemed to read forever, reading one sheet and then the next, over and over, before looking up.

“You were right, Jeanne. Sa Majesté does need our help.” He stared at the dying embers in the fireplace. Then, in a softer voice: “Please convey my concern to her and let her know I am ready to help in any way.”

***

Two weeks went by when Jeanne sat down beside the Cardinal again with excitement in her eyes.

“The Queen wants to meet you, Your Eminence,” she said, producing a two-page letter from her bodice.

“When?” The Cardinal couldn’t conceal his excitement.

“Read for yourself.”

The morning sunlight flooded the room and gave her face an exceptional ra diance. The Cardinal thought she never looked more alluring as her hand touched when she passed him the letter.

He pressed the letter to his lips and looked up, moving his lips in silent prayer. He unfolded the letter and started reading, smiling as he finished.

“When would she like to see me?”

“Tomorrow. In the garden. At midnight.” His eyes were alive in a way she had never seen before.

It was an excellent time to set the trap, she thought. “A couple more things, Your Eminence. “She paused to emphasize what she was going to say next. “The Queen needs assurance from you in advance that you are prepared to help buy the necklace for her. Otherwise, she will not come.”

Cardinal Rohann nodded and scrunched up his face. “I would like to pay the 1.6 million livres, Jeanne. But I can pay the first instalment of 130,000 livres. Bohmer must agree to that.

“Leave it to me, Eminence.”

***

Charles Auguste Bohmer wrung his hands with joy when Jeanne met with him at his offices the same afternoon. “I don’t know what to say, Madame La Comtesse. You tru-

ly are a worker of great miracles. Until you came, I was in despair, feeling that everything I had worked for all my life would go up in smoke.”

“One thing, though, M. Bohmer,” said Jeanne. The Cardinal is making a gift of it to Sa Majesté. He will agree only if he can pay in instalments. He will pay the first instalment of 130,000 livres.”

“Agreed,” said Bohemer with hesitation. “I will need a purchase order signed by the Queen.”

“I’m sure that will be fine.”

He bowed and kissed her hand as he saw her to the door.

Jeanne paused at the open doorway: “Don’t forget the 100,000 livres you promised.”

Jeanne opened the door to a young woman wearing a black veil.

“My name is Nicole. I was sent here by a mutual friend. He told me you would tell me what you would like me to do. I understand a costume is needed. Do you mind if we sit? This veil is driving me crazy,” she said, throwing the veil over her head.

Jeanne opened her mouth. She couldn’t believe her eyes. It was the Queen all over – the blonde hair and pinched-up lips – and for a split second, she didn’t know what to say. “You look like the Queen,” she said when she found her voice. “Can you sound like her as well?”

“We are happy to see you, Madame La Comtesse. We would like to see you at court more often,” she said in a voice you’d swear it was the Queen. “Well,” said Nicole after a brief pause, “do I get the job or not?”

Jeanne reached out and embraced her.

***

L’Abbé DeGrace approached the Queen. “You sent for me, Votre Majesté?

Marie Antoinette was in her private sitting room and looked as though she was ready to burst into tears. She reached out for his hand.

“Revolution is in the air. The Comte de Saint-Germain warned me weeks ago that rebellion was brewing, and I didn’t listen,” She dabbed her eyes. “They’re saying I want the famous necklace made for Madame du Barry while thousands are starving.”

She paused and looked him in the eye. “But it’s untrue. I haven’t bought M. Bohmer’s famous necklace and have no intention of buying it or any other necklace.” She was breathing hard, with her words coming out in gulps.

L’Abbé did not say anything for almost a minute.

“Do you know, Votre Majesté, that Monsieur Le Comte de Saint-Germain is still in Paris?

“You are mistaken, for once, Monseigneur. He told me three weeks ago that he was leaving Paris that night for good.” As she was saying this, she also knew that L’Abbé never lied to her. “How do you know this?”

“I am not in a position to tell you that, Votre Majesté. But I can assure you that he is still in Paris and brewing up something evil for you and France.”

Marie Antoinette shook her head. “You do not know him the way as I do, Monseigneur.”

“I have seen many men in my confessional, Votre Majesté, and I can tell you would never see the likes of Le Comte among them. They do not believe in God but evil.”

He paused to scan her face. “I am always suspicious of seemingly rich men who flaunt their wealth, yet no one knows the source of that wealth. I have seen men like him before – and they are all the same – ruthless, self-serving and always putting themselves first. It always ends badly, if

not for them, then for someone else.”

Marie Antoinette shivered and called out to one of her favourites.

“Before she comes, Votre Majesté, let me beg you again to leave Paris immediately. Tell your good husband, our King, that you need a rest in the country with him and your family.”

“He won’t, Monseigneur.” ***

Cardinal Rohen pulled at Jeanne’s sleeve. “Are you sure she’s coming? I don’t feel comfortable waiting in the shadows like this. I feel like some kind of footpad, waiting to do someone harm.” He shivered and drew his red muffler around him and sipped on the wine Jeanne had brought for him. “Try this,” she said, passing him a small glass of brandy. “It’ll warm you up.”

Finally, coming face to face with the Queen had somehow unnerved him. He rose and started pacing back and forth. A faint breeze brought with it the scent of summer flowers. He inhaled the aroma and sat down next to Jeanne.

“It’s not midnight, Eminence. She said midnight. Here. Where we’re sitting now. It will be impossible to miss her.”

“Do you think I should ask her help to make me prime minister?”

“I’d let it ride for a while. And then, when you decide to go to court after a month or two, talk to her then.”

Rohan stood. “I hear someone coming now.”

The Queen suddenly appeared a few minutes later without warning. She just suddenly emerged with two attendants in tow, who abruptly left without a word.

“We meet finally, Votre Eminence.”

There was aloofness to her voice, but Rohan decided to ignore it. “I am here now, Votre Majesté, and at your complete service.”

The Queen, wearing a carefully arranged veil that showed only part of her face, held out her hand. He kissed it and blessed her.

He cleared his throat, not quite sure how to begin. “I would appreciate it if you would graciously accept my humble gift.” Another pause to see how she was reacting to his proposal. “Please accept it as a sign of my devotion and loyalty to Votre Majesté.”

The Queen didn’t respond immediately. “Thank you, Votre Eminence. It gives me enormous pleasure to accept your gift and your devotion. It will not be forgotten.”

She shivered. “There is a chill in the air, and I feel cold. Forgive us if we take our leave from you.”

The Cardinal bowed. The Queen turned to one of her attendants and disappeared among the shadows.

“What now, Jeanne?”

“Let me arrange a meeting for you with M. Bohmer in the morning.”

***

M. Bohmer arrived at precisely 9.30, clutching the scarlet case that contained a necklace for the Queen at the Cardinal residence. His freshly-powdered wig was askew, andhe was trying to straighten it with his free hand.

“Allow me to show you the greatest piece I have ever created. I am sure the Queen will love it and show her appreciation for your generous gift.” He smiled and passed the case to the Cardinal.

The Cardinal opened the box and looked at the necklace, shimmering in the morning sunlight, for almost five minutes. He seemed mesmerized by it. He passed it to Jeanne, who kept nodding her head.

“You have outdone yourself, M. Bohmer,” she said,

passing the case back to the Cardinal. “No wonder the Queen thought of nothing else but this for weeks.”

“She will have her wish her granted by France’s most generous Cardinal. May it bring her great peace, comfort and real joy every time she wears the necklace and thinks of you and your generosity, Your Eminence.”

Rohan reached into his valet case and produced a bag of gold coins. “The first instalment, M. Bohmer.”

M. Bohmer took the bag and bowed. Then, turning to Jeanne, “You have the purchase order from the Queen, I trust.”

Jeanne smiled and produced the purchase order signed by the Queen from her handbag.

Bohmer looked at it carefully. “The Queen has such a lovely hand, n’est-ce pas?”

“Just remember the rest of the instalments will be paid by the Queen,” she added.

Bohmer left a few minutes later. It was time for Jeanne to go and take the necklace to the Queen.

“It’s so incredible. I hate to part with it,” said the Cardinal, passing the case to Jeanne.

“I know, Your Eminence. Anyone would.”

“Kindly let me know what she thinks.”

***

They met at the same inn where they met a month earlier. The Count looked the same, except for an eye patch and a moustache to disguise himself. The only giveaway were the jewels in his shoes.

“I gather everything went smoothly,” he said, eyeing M. Bohmer’s case.

“Just as you said.” Jeanne passed the case to him. He immediately opened it, scanning each diamond with a magnifying glass and using one to scratch a piece of glass he carried with him. “They’re genuine, all right. With

jewellers, you can never tell sometimes. But I had a feeling this would be real,” he added with a smile.

“I’m curious. What do you plan to do with the necklace, now that you have it?”

“I have wonderful, wondrous plans for it.”

He suddenly stopped smiling. “I want you to promise me that you will leave Paris as soon as possible. Go to England, Germany, Italy. Anywhere, but Paris. When our little ruse is discovered, there will be the devil to pay. You will not want to be here when that day comes.”

Jeanne rose but was stopped by his outstretched hand. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

‘You’ll find it all here – 350,000 gold coins.”

She sucked in her breath.

“A bit heavy, I’m afraid. But it can’t be helped. I suggest you sent a messenger from the inn to come and help you home with your luggage.”

He stood. “I will leave first. Wait five minutes and go downstairs and write a note to your husband and get the landlord to send someone to take your note to him.”

When he closed the door behind him, she felt somehow sorry. She could have led an exciting life with someone like him.

With its bare wood rafters turned brown with smoke from the fireplace, the room looked suddenly empty without his presence. The hardwood table with old carved initials had seen many coasts of paint and fascinated her. She stood and went to the diamond-shaped paned window to look out at the street below. It was dark, and she decided to take a coach instead of sending a messenger.

***

She saw the Cardinal for the last time a week later

with another note from the Queen.

“I thought you had deserted me,” said Rohan as he welcomed her with a kiss.

“Great news from Sa Majesté, Your Eminence. I wanted to wait until she got around to writing a thank-you letter to you,” she said, producing the letter from her bodice.

“Wonderful,” he said, breaking the seal on the letter. He scanned it carefully and reread it to make sure he had read it right. He folded the letter with a broad smile. “Thank you for this, Jeanne. I will never forget you for this. Sa Majesté has written that she will not forget me when the appointment time comes around.”

When she left sometime later, she knew she would never see him again. ***

Marie Antoinette had dismissed her favourites and her servants by the time L’Abbé arrived. He noted that they were alone and thought it might be for confession.

“I just had a meeting with M. Bohmer. He came asking for the next instalment for the necklace. I told him I did not buy the necklace and leave at once and never come to me ever again.

“He didn’t leave immediately. He said the Cardinal had paid the first instalment a month ago and that I was to pay the balance in instalments. He even produced a purchase order in my handwriting.

“Let me swear to you in the name of the Blessed Mother that this purchase order did not come from me or was signed by me. What can you advise me, Monseigneur?”

“You recall our conversation a month ago about Le Comte de Saint-Germain? I warned you then. And even warned you that he was still in Paris.”

Marie Antoinette was ready to pull her newly-designed hairstyle to pieces. “How do you know this?”

“I cannot tell you – so please do not ask.”

“If he is still here, have him arrested in the name of the King.”

“I’m afraid you’re late, Votre Majesté. He left Paris and France for Germany just after the crime was committed about a month ago.”

She nodded and rang a bell for one of her favourites. “Send for the captain of the guard at once.” She scanned L’Abbé s face for a reaction and was pleased to see him nodding.

***

“Well, Votre Eminence. What do you have to say for yourself?

Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t this. “Votre Majesté?”

“I had a visit this morning from M. Bohmer. I’m sure you remember him, asking for the next instalment in payment for his necklace.”

Cardinal Rohan nodded. “That is what I agreed to pay and that you were to pay the balance. Ask M. Bohmer.”

“How did all this come about?”

“It started in a conversation I had with La Comtesse de la Motte-Valois. She is an acquaintance of yours, I understand. She told you were upset because M. Bohemer was badgering you to buy the necklace.”

He paused to wipe his brow with his handkerchief. “The Comtesse then showed me two letters written in your hand, suggesting that Votre Majesté wanted to buy the necklace but was concerned over the finances. I told La Comtess de la Motte-Valois I would pay the first instalment to help Votre Majesté.

“Then, in another letter, you wrote that you were prepared to meet in the palace gardens at midnight. And you did, I swear that by Our Lady. You accepted my offer of help.”

Marie Antoinette pursed her lips but let him continue.

“On the next morning, La Comtesse arranged for M. Bohmer to deliver the necklace at my residence, where I paid him the first instalment. La Comtesse then produced an order from you to buy the necklace for M. Bohmer. It was also written in your hand.”

“What happened to the necklace?”

“I gave it to La Comtesse to deliver it to you. She met me about a week later and produced another letter from you, in which you promised to remember me the next time the appointment time came around.”

And then, in a softer voice, “it was the last time I saw La Comtesse.”

The Queen shook her head in disgust. “The irony of it all is that I refused to acknowledge her at court because of the talk that she was your mistress.”

Cardinal Rohan left a few minutes later.

“Save me your I told you so’s, Monseigneur. What I need now is your advice on how I should handle this.”

“First, bring everyone involved in this, including the Cardinal, the person who impersonated you, La Comtesse and her forger to trial.”

She shook her head. “It just gives greater credence to stories making the round in Paris that the Cardinal and I were lovers. Not quite as bad as other rumours that I am a lesbian, which, as you know, Monseigneur, as my confessor, I am anything but.”

“Then talk to your good husband and ask his advice.”

***

La Comtesse de la Motte-Valois was later convicted in French courts, branded and imprisoned for life. Being a resourceful woman, she managed to escape to England, where she published her memoirs, in which she offered

new revelations, swearing that the Queen and the Cardinal were lovers.

Murder at Stalag Luft

“Murder?”

Hugh Wrayburn recoiled as though someone had just slapped his face

“Exactly so. Murder,” said Camp Commandant Oberst Dieter Braun. “And he’ll answer for it tomorrow morning in front of a firing squad. I felt you should be apprised of this, as POW commanding officer.

Braun prided himself on being a fair man, and that included the POWs under his care at Stalag Luft. He looked out the window, past Wing Commander Wrayburn to see Oberleunant Horst Fuchs dressing down one of the guards. He turned back to Wrayburn, whose face had suddenly become worn and tired. Braun couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. But with the murder of the guard, there was nothing he or Wrayburn could do about it.

“There’s no hope of a reprieve?”

It was almost as though he had read Wrayburn’s thoughts. Braun shook his head. “It’s cut and dry, I’m afraid, Wing Commander.

“Pte. Drummond was found unconscious next to the body of the guard he murdered with this,” he said in a quiet, even voice, holding up an iron spike that had been fashioned into a digging tool.

Wrayburn lowered his eyes and turned away.

Braun brushed a piece of lint from his sleeve. He

couldn’t help feeling the attempted escape – and murder of one of his guards – was a blot on his record and worried what interpretation his superiors would put on it.

Too bad about Drummond, he thought. What was in his head to attempt such a stupid thing? Even if he did manage to escape, he couldn’t possibly find his way back to England. Pomerania was too far from any possible escape gateway. Still, it showed a weakness in the system he had set up.

“Is there anything else?

“It just doesn’t add up. Could I prevail on you to delay the execution for a day or two?”

“What’s the point, wing commander?”

“We’d like to do a bit of investigating on our own.”

Braun didn’t respond immediately as he weighed the pros and cons. It would undoubtedly upset Fuchs, he thought, with half a smile. Fuchs was inflexible in just about everything he did. Braun’s hazel eyes smiled for the first time. The record player behind him was playing Mozart softly. He closed his eyes and listened for a few seconds.

“You’ve got two days.”

Wrayburn tried to smile but failed. He’s had to do a lot of rum things since he was made Wing Commander, but this had to be the worst. How do you tell a 20-yearold you’re going to face a firing squad the next morning for something no one in the camp believed he did.

He rubbed his hand across the grey-peppered stubble that made him look ten years older and entered the makeshift infirmary in one of the POW compound's wooden huts. He found a chair near Drummond’s bed and sat down next to him. Ian Drummond, looking more boyish than ever, was still shaken from the previous night’s nightmare. A white bandage was wound around his head at a

rakish angle. He touched it from time to time, hoping it would relieve the pain from the gash on the right side of his head.

Wrayburn looked at him and wondered for the 18th time how to tell him. “How do you feel, Drummond?”

Drummond attempted to raise himself on his left elbow but fell back, feeling the bandage again.

“Do you feel like talking?”

“Sorry, I didn’t make it, sir.”

“That’s not important right now.” Wrayburn had a strong baritone voice that had suddenly become soft and soothing.

Drummond closed his eyes. When he opened them a minute later, he tried to smile. “Is that it, sir?”

Wrayburn took a deep breath. “They believe you killed the guard who discovered you trying to escape.”

“That’s not true.” Drummond’s voice suddenly caught fire.

“I’m afraid that’s not all, Drummond.” A slight pause. “They plan to execute you tomorrow morning.”

“But I didn’t do it. I tried to escape, and, yes, the guard did discover me trying to. But that’s it. The next thing I know, I wake up in here with a monster-sized headache.” He paused to look at Wrayburn’s face. “Is that it, or is there more?”

Wrayburn tried to smile and shook his head. “No. But I’ve negotiated a two-day delay in your execution to prove you didn’t do it. Any ideas?”

“What about the Dip?”

“The Dip?”

“The Canadian, who works as a helper in the officers’ mess. He collects all the potato peelings there, and God knows what else to make a special brew. We call him the Dip because he dishes it out to us with a battered, old dipper he purloined from the mess. That’s how he got the name

Dipper. Dip for short.”

“I fail –“

“He’s a wizard at sniffing out thieves in the barracks. Since he exposed two POWs, who had stolen watches and lighters from some of us, there have been no more thefts.”

“I’ll check him out,” said Wrayburn as he took his leave. He knew DeGrace and knew his record flying Spits in Malta. But as a maker of homebrew. ***

“Good stuff, DeGrace. I knew we could count on you. If you don’t already know, Drummond has a lot of faith in you. I understand you’re some kind of whiz at this sort of thing. And I’ll do whatever I can to assist you.” Wrayburn studied DeGrace’s face, the RAF-style moustache he cultivated and the cornflower blue eyes that seemed to look inside you. “Do you mind if I ask whether you think Pte. Drummond is guilty?”

“That’s impossible to say that this point. But my instincts tell me No. Drummond knows me well enough that if I find he’s guilty, I won’t hesitate in saying so.”

“When do we start?”

Wrayburn couldn’t resist a smile. He still wasn’t sure about DeGrace, but he didn’t have anyone or anything else right now.

“Before we do anything, I need to know what Pte. Drummond thinks happened.”

“He was knocked out while trying to escape under the fence. That’s about it, I’m afraid.”

DeGrace smiled and opened the door. “After you, sir.”

Wrayburn didn’t say much as they made their way to the infirmary. He didn’t like the way Drummond got him to agree to enlist the help of DeGrace. There were others he had far more confidence in. He decided to keep his thoughts

to himself, at least for the moment.

Pte. Drummond was sitting at the side of his bed and tried to stand, but DeGrace waved him down.

“Save your strength, private. You’re going to need it.” DeGrace pulled up a chair and offered it to Wrayburn. “I feel better already.”

“Let’s not count our chickens just yet,” said Wrayburn. “Pilot Officer DeGrace has a few questions he would like to ask you.”

Drummond felt the side of his head and tried to smile. “Go ahead.”

“Tell me in your own words exactly what happened.”

“It was two in the morning. That’s the time I felt the guards would least expect an escape and most likely be careless.” He paused to watch a fly land on his big toe and take off again as he moved his foot.

“I reached the fence without incident. I began digging with a makeshift pick I had made, again without incident. When I felt it was deep enough, I pushed myself under the wire. I was half-way through when I was discovered by one of the guards. Everything after that is a complete blank.”

Wrayburn observed DeGrace. He had already told him essentially the same thing, but that didn’t seem to concern DeGrace.

“I want you to think hard now, private. Did you hear anything?”

Drummond tightened his mouth and tried to shake his head.

“Think. Perhaps a footstep. Breathing. A voice.”

Drummond didn’t respond. It was clear that he was becoming exhausted, and his young face looked drained and beaten. He was about to shake his head again when he stopped. “Yes.” His eyes widened. “A grunt and the sound

of someone breathing hard.”

“Could it have been the guard?”

“No, he had his rifle pointed at me and had just ordered me to get up.”

Wrayburn rose and sat down again when he noticed that DeGrace hadn’t budged.

“What aren’t you telling us?” DeGrace’s voice suddenly sounded hard and demanding.

“What do you mean?”

DeGrace’s eyes never left Drummond for an instant. “I have the distinct feeling you’re leaving something out, something that could change everything.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know what else I can tell you, other than that guard was probably the last one I would kill. Vogel looks the other way when we need to sneak something into the camp. I don’t know of anyone who doesn’t like him.”

Wrayburn smiled but didn’t offer a comment.

“He told us the other day he had proposed to one of the girls in town, but her father is against it. Seems Vogel wasn’t rich enough for his daughter.”

***

Braun was standing behind his desk, looking out the window and watching a dust devil swirl its way across the compound when Wrayburn and DeGrace entered. Now what? It was time to get tough, he thought, as he sat down behind his desk.

“If it’s for more time, the answer is No,” he said, avoiding Wrayburn’s eyes and focusing on the pictures of the Fuhrer, Field Marshal Goering and ME109F fighters that lined the bare wooden walls of his office.

“I wanted to introduce you to Pilot Officer DeGrace, who will be heading our investigations. He has a few questions and needs your permission to pursue certain leads.”

“DeGrace. He’s a helper in our mess. Are you sure,

Wing Commander?”

“S’il vous plaît, commandant.”

“You speak French, I see. I must remember that. You are a man of many surprises: Spitfire ace, an amateur cook who can make real Italian spaghetti. And now, an investigator.”

“I owe it all to my parents,” said DeGrace in French. “My mother is Italian, who spoke to me in only Italian and taught me Italian cooking, and my father, an Acadian and a provincial court judge, who speaks to me in only French.”

“Well, pilot officer, what can I do for you?”

Wrayburn was surprised as well and made a mental note to know his men better.

“I assume you’ve appointed an officer to oversee the investigation and that it’s Oberleunant Fuchs.”

Braun nodded.

“I will need to talk to him.”

“This is not a trial, pilot officer, just in case you tell me now that you’re also a lawyer,” said Braun with a smile that showed a missing tooth.

“Understood, commandant. But may I point out that finding the truth is just as important to you as it is to us. I don’t think you want a killer running loose in your camp. If I’m right, who knows who will be next?”

***

Fuchs was Prussian and proud of it. You could see it in the stiff way he walked and in the air of superiority that underlined his words in purple ink.

“I have not been apprised of this by Oberst Braun, but I will take your word for it, Wing Commander.” Then, turning to DeGrace, “we have not formally met although our paths have crossed.”

Fuchs’s office was nothing more than an exaggerated broom closet with a window, where he could watch at what was going on in the camp. A faint scent of expensive

cologne followed him as he sat on the front of his desk and folded his arms.

“What do you need to know?”

A knock at the door and one of the POWs entered, carrying a pair of trousers folded under his arm, and left it on Fuchs’s desk. Wrayburn took note but decided to say nothing.

“We would like a run down about everything you know about the incident,” said Wrayburn.

“This is highly irregular.”

DeGrace went immediately to the point. “We don’t believe Pte. Drummond killed your guard.”

“I’m sure you do,” said Fuchs, offering a weak smile, “but that’s where we differ, Pilot Officer. We have sufficient evidence to prove to our satisfaction that he did precisely that while attempting to escape.

“One thing more,” he added, “so that there is no doubt in your mind where I stand. If I were in command, and who knows, stranger things have happened, we would not be having this conversation, and you would not be in my office.”

Then, after a slightest of pauses, “But I am an officer of the Reich, and I obey my superior officers.

“I should also tell you that I was making my rounds at the time – one of my surprise inspections – and was on the scene within two minutes after Pte. Vogel, the guard, was murdered, and Cpl. Norbert Bergmann was at his side within seconds.”

“Was there any evidence – footprints or anything else – that would suggest the presence of another person?”

Fuchs scrunched up his nose. “No. Anything else?”

“Was an autopsy performed on Pte. Vogel?”

The question caught Fuchs off guard. This little man was becoming irksome, he thought. “I didn’t think it was necessary. The cause of death was obvious, don’t you

think?”

“In my experience, Oberleunant, nothing in life is rarely as it seems. Especially, death.”

“Perhaps in your mind, Pilot Officer. Not in mine. When I see a spike sticking out of someone’s chest, there’s no question in my mind how that person died. And I have to wonder why you should want to ignore the obvious.”

“Because, Oberleunant, there are several things that don’t add up in all this.”

“Such as?” Fuchs did not attempt to hide his mounting anger.

“How someone found half-way under the fence could have murdered someone standing over him.”

Fuchs twisted his mouth. “What precisely are you driving at?”

“An autopsy that establishes the cause of Vogel’s death.”

“Anything else?”

***

DeGrace opened the door to Dr. Schumacher’s mini-hospital, housed in a separate L-shaped hut next to the camp commandant’s office. Wrayburn raised his eyebrows. DeGrace acted as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Whatever was in Fuchs’s head evaporated when he introduced Dr. Schumacher, a tall, thin, balding man with a pasty complexion and quick, dark brown eyes.

A nurse was attending two patients on either side of a long row of white-enamelled steel beds covered by brilliant white bedsheets and coverlets. A slow hum generated by a machine at the end of the room was barely noticeable.

“I gather, Dr. Schumacher, that you’ve completed your autopsy of the murdered soldier. I assume the cause of death was the spike in Pte. Vogel’s chest,” said Fuchs in a confident voice.

Dr. Schumacher shook his head. “It was the first thing that came to my head but—“

Fuchs looked at DeGrace suspiciously.

“Until I examined his chest and saw several stab wounds all over it. Not just in the heart. But all over his chest. These weren’t evident unless you took off his upper garments.”

“Which came first?” Fuchs snapped.

“If you’re asking what killed him, it wasn’t the knife and spike thrusts. It was the blow to the head, which pierced his skull.”

“How can you be sure,” Fuchs pressed.

“Judging by the bleeding, I would say he was dead before the iron spike struck him. The stab wounds, by the way, were caused by a different instrument.” ***

Fuchs didn’t accept Dr. Schumacker’s findings. “I don’t care what that incompetent says. If there’s nothing else –“

“We would like to talk to the corporal who found the body,” said DeGrace.

Fuchs left to send the company clerk in search of Bergmann, who entered Fuchs’s office with the company clerk.

“You haven’t done anything wrong, Oberge Freiter Bergmann,” said Fuchs. “Oberst Braun has permitted us to talk to you about your friend, Jurgen. I already know, but these POWs would like to talk to you about it. Just tell them what you told me.”

Bergmann, a tall, black-haired young man in his early 20s with a nervous smile, was a Prussian like Fuchs but without the attitude. He responded by nodding.

“All I can tell you is what I told Oberleunant Fuchs,” he said, glancing at Fuchs. “I heard Jurgen cry out, and I ran

to see what was wrong. I kept calling out to him, but got no response. I found out why when I saw him lying on the ground with a spike in his chest.”

“What about the prisoner?”

“He was lying on the ground.”

Fuchs held up his hand. “Was he trying to back up into the prisoners’ compound when you got there?”

“I can’t say, Oberleunant. My only concern was for my friend. The next thing I knew, you arrived on the scene.”

“Did you strike the POW on the head with the butt of your rifle?” said DeGrace.

Bergmann shook his head.

“I think you have to agree, Oberleunant, that if Cpl. Bergmann did not strike Pte. Drummond in the head, someone else did,” said DeGrace after Bergmann had left.

Fuchs ignored the question.

“Otherwise,” DeGrace droned on, “he would have been struck in the head by Pte. Vogel. If so, how did Pte. Drummond manage to stick a spike into Vogel’s heart while unconscious.”

“I understand where you’re going with this,” said Fuchs, pausing to collect his thoughts. “I suggest we deal with your other inquiries first. We may find the answer elsewhere?”

***

It was highly irregular and pointless, Fuchs told them at least a dozen times when DeGrace asked him later to arrange for them to go into town and visit Vogel’s girlfriend. Wrayburn looked at DeGrace out of the corner of his eye and wondered what the point was. DeGrace, as usual, was not forthcoming.

“I like to look at every aspect,” he said when Fuchs asked him point-blank.

“I assume you were not so vague when you were shooting down our planes in Malta,” said Fuchs as we

drove into the town, where Vogel’s girlfriend, Fritzi Schroder, lived in a two-room apartment with her father on the second floor of a three-storey brick building on a side street, close to the centre of the town.

As far as Fuchs was concerned, it was an unforgivable waste of time. He sniffed the air and scrunched his nose again as we made our way up a short flight of stairs that creaked at every step.

Fuchs stopped in front of 203 and knocked on the door. It was probably not heard amid the shouting inside. Fuchs’s face tightened, and he knocked again, this time, repeatedly and louder.

A few seconds later, a young woman with blonde hair and bright blue eyes opened the door a crack, just enough to look us over. “Yes?”

Fuchs introduced himself as well as Wrayburn and told her it was about the death of Pte. Vogel. She broke into tears almost immediately and opened the door to let us in.

“Who is it, Fritzi?” said an older man, sitting beside the window in a tattered leather chair.

“It’s about Jurgen,” she said, raising her voice a notch. “There’s an officer from the camp and two POWs who want to talk to me,” she added, raising her voice again.

“He doesn’t hear too well,” she added, pointing to the kitchen table. “Let me get you something to drink.”

We sat down. Fuchs had withdrawn within himself. He didn’t like what he saw and felt uncomfortable.

“What would you like to know?” she said, sitting down at the head of the table and crossing her arms.

“Too bad someone didn’t kill him sooner,” said her father in a loud voice as he tried to raise himself from the chair. Schroeder, a short, thin-faced man in his early 60s, leaned on a black, knotted cane and hobbled to the table. What looked like a second cane peeped out from behind his chair.

“An old wound from the big war,” he added. The wound left a scar extending down his left leg from his hip to his ankle that left him incapacitated. It didn’t stop him. Nothing did, he was fond of saying. “It only bothers me on certain days. The cane is a big help. It keeps me mobile.”

“Forgive me for observing, Herr Schroeder. You don’t seem upset with the death of your daughter’s finance,” said Wrayburn.

Fuchs translated his comment and waited for Schroeder’s reply. Wrayburn looked puzzled for a second and studied Schroeder’s face.

Schroeder responded after a brief pause as if trying to find the right words to express what he wanted to say. “I am not happy to see anyone murdered. But I make no pretence that Vogel was not right for my beautiful Fritzi.” Wrayburn bit the edge of his moustache and sipped the Schnapps from the shot glass Fritzi had poured for him.

“Ask him if he had anything to do with Vogel’s death,” said DeGrace.

“I can’t ask him that,” said Fuchs in an angry voice.

“Why not? Ask him, s’il vous plaît.”

Schroeder exploded with a string of words that made the table shake, cutting off Fuchs in mid-sentence. Fuchs looked at Wrayburn. “Do I need to translate?”

***

We left a few minutes later. Fuchs, who had been talkative on our way, sat back with a sullen face. DeGrace glanced at Wrayburn, who always looked apprehensive when he was around Fuchs, ignoring DeGrace and keeping his eyes on the road. Fuchs became even more sullen when we slowed down to navigate around a bomb crater. DeGrace looked out the window at the long lineups at the bakery and other shops on their way out of town. The sky was overcast, dark grey, and as gloomy as the atmosphere in the car.

“Halt.” The order came quick and sudden as Fuchs rolled down his window and yelled at a group of soldiers clustered around two burnt-out tanks. The unmistakable odour of cordite seeped inside before we were on our way again.

Fuchs broke the silence. “Did you learn anything? As far as I’m concerned, our meeting with Herr Schroeder was an unforgivable waste of time.”

“It’s too early to tell.”

“It’s too early to tell,” said Fuchs mimicking DeGrace and laughed for the first time. “You should be a politician.” ***

“What do you think, Pilot Officer?” said Wrayburn as they entered the compound.

“Two things: The father of the bride-to-be sounded more like an actor than a father. And second, he and Fuchs know each other.”

“I had that impression as well.”

“His aura. It was not the anger of an angry man. And even less so when he talked to Fuchs.”

“I heard you believed in something like this, but I’m not sure I understand it.”

“It doesn’t matter, Wing Commander. What matters is whether it helps us save Pte. Drummond from being executed tomorrow morning,” said DeGrace as they entered the POWs’ makeshift hospital hut.

“I’m not sure what we can tell him at the moment,” said Wrayburn.

“It’s not what we are going to tell him but what he can tell us.”

Wrayburn cocked his head and decided to let DeGrace do all the talking.

Drummond was sitting on the side of his bed, which had been moved to a window that had a view of the forest

beyond the camp. Warm air entered between the weathered boards of the back wall. He had been talking to another injured airman, who stood as soon as he saw us and started to leave.

“We’d like to talk to you, too,” said DeGrace.

The airman, about Drummond’s age, hesitated, looking at Wrayburn for guidance.

“Take a seat, Robinson. I think you know Pilot Officer DeGrace. He would like to talk to you.”

“I’m not sure I can help.”

DeGrace smiled. “That’s not entirely true, Cpl. Robinson, n’est-ce- pas?

Robinson’s icy blue eyes suddenly turned darker. “What do you mean? I’m only here to see my friend, Ian. We were gunners on the same Lancaster.”

“I wasn’t talking about that but your role in this development.”

“What do you mean?” said Robinson, glancing at his friend.

“You were the other person trying to escape two nights ago.”

Wrayburn stiffened.

Robinson gripped the edge of the mattress and shook his head.

“What’s this about, DeGrace?” Wrayburn wasn’t sure whether this was helping or not.

“I took the time to explore the POW side of the escape path after visiting the site with Fuchs. “He paused to underline what he was going to say next. “It showed the presence of a second person, and that second person was you, Corporal.”

Robinson didn’t respond.

“When I talked to your friend, Pte. Drummond, yesterday, I asked if he was telling us everything. I had the feeling he wasn’t. And when I inspected the site today, I was

sure of it.”

“Be a good chap, Robinson,” said Wreyburn. “If you know something, for the love of God, tell us. It could mean the difference between life and death for your friend.”

Robinson took a deep breath and looked at Drummond. “I was that second person. Ian told me that if we were discovered, I should get back to our hut as quickly as possible and say absolutely nothing for fear that I might be penalized for trying to escape. That’s about it.”

DeGrace smiled again. “Not quite, I think, Cpl. Robinson. But we’ll get to that later.” Then, after a brief pause: “What did you see when Pte. Drummond was discovered?”

“One of the guards discovered Ian almost by accident on his rounds. As soon as I heard the guard’s voice, I backed up and crawled back to our hut.”

“That’s it? Please think hard before answering.”

“I think so.”

“No other voices?”

Robinson stood up. “Yes. Another voice. Someone else was there.”

“One other thing, Corporal,” said DeGrace, his cornflower blue eyes smiling for the first time. “How well do you know Oberleunant Fuchs?”

The question rattled Robinson in a way that surprised Drummond. “He picked me out to be his batman. I polish his boots every day and make sure his shirts are washed and ironed every day.”

“Yes,” said Wrayburn, “I remember seeing you yesterday at his office.”

Robinson looked at his watch. “This reminds me. I should be doing that now. I’d better scoot. He’s a nut about time.”

***

“What is it, Fuchs?” It has been a long day, and Braun was tired. He looked at DeGrace and Wrayburn and

wondered what now.

“I hope you don’t mind, commandant, but something’s come up that you should know about,” said Wrayburn.

Braun waited and couldn’t help noticing that Fuchs looked a little unsure of himself.

“It seems there was another person who was also present when your guard was murdered.”

“Well?” said Braun, looking at Fuchs. “Can you produce that witness?”

DeGrace nodded. Wrayburn looked at DeGrace, knowing it was anything but a sure thing and took a deep breath.

***

Robbie Robinson looked as though he hadn’t slept in days. He hadn’t shaved, and the soft light brown fuzz on his cheeks made him look a lot younger than his 21 years. Wrayburn smiled but not enough to lift the apprehension from Robinson’s eyes.

“We’d like to talk to you about Fuchs.”

“What about Fuchs?”

“Your connection with him,” said Wrayburn. “He was not allowed a batman at the camp and asked me if I would like the job.”

“What did he offer in exchange?” said DeGrace. “Lunch in the enlisted men’s mess every day.”

“That’s it?”

Robinson sucked in his breath as he decided what to say next. He glanced at Drummond. “That’s it. Except he didn’t keep his word.”

“I think not. I can always tell when someone is not forthright. So what are you not telling us?”

“Do you mind if I sit?”

Drummond made room for him beside him on the side of the bed and took another deep breath. “Fuchs con-

fided in me that the Russians were only 500 km away and that if they came close to the camp, the commandant had been given orders to kill all the POWs before pulling out.”

Wrayburn cleared his throat. “When did you plan to tell the rest of –“

DeGrace raised his hand. “Let him finish,” he said, turning to Robinson. “Then what?”

“Fuchs told me he would arrange it so that I would be able to leave with him…”

“Go on,” said Wrayburn.

“On condition that I act as a source of information about the other POWs and what they were up to.” Robinson turned to Drummond. “He knew all about your plan to escape. It never came from me. So he must have learned that from someone else.”

Wrayburn looked disgusted. “When did you plan to enlighten the rest of us about all this?”

“After Ian – sorry, Pte. Drummond – had made his escape.”

Drummond looked as though someone had just kicked him in the stomach. “You betrayed me, Robbie.” The hurt in his voice lingered in the air.

“You got it wrong, Ian. It wasn’t going to be like that. I was working on Fuchs to arrange it so that Ian would leave alive. That’s why I volunteered to escape with you –to make sure you got on your way safely and to make sure Fuchs lived up to his end of the bargain. He had assured me that no one would be in the escape area at that time.”

Drummond looked away.

“You’ve got to believe me, Ian. I wouldn’t have agreed to any of this unless Fuchs promised.”

Wrayburn looked at DeGrace. “There’s something else you should know. I was going to tell you later, but it may have a bearing on this latest development.

“I’m not fluent in German, but I did take a course or

two in it at Cambridge. That was a few years ago, and I’d forgotten just about everything I knew. But after 19 months in this luxury resort, it all came back to me and more. I never let on I understood what they were talking about.”

“What about Fuchs?”

“Steady on, DeGrace. I was coming to that.” He paused to glance at Drummond, who was looking at him open-mouthed. “It’s about our meeting with Schroeder and his daughter. Fuchs’s translation wasn’t entirely accurate –either what he told Schroeder or you.”

“Something else you should be aware of. It was clear from their exchange that they knew each other and had an agreement of some kind. Schroeder accused Fuchs of reneging on their deal. That’s when he struck the table.”

If Wrayburn were expecting some kind of acknowledgement from DeGrace, he probably would have to wait until Doomsday. DeGrace just smiled and asked him to see Oberst Braun about setting up a meeting at his office in the morning – an hour before the execution.

DeGrace handed Wrayburn a slip of paper containing the names of the individuals he would like invited. Wrayburn glanced at it. “Are you sure?”

***

Braun couldn’t resist a smile when he saw DeGrace. “You’re quite an operator, Pilot Officer. After dealing with you for two days, I’m not quite sure who’s running the camp.”

The morning sun flooded the room. “Where would you like to sit?”

“If you don’t mind, commandant, I’d rather stand.”

Fuchs was the first to arrive a few minutes later, followed by Cpl. Bergmann, Drummond and Robinson and Dr. Schumacher. Fritzi and her father hesitated at the door for a few seconds. Braun nodded to one of the guards to guide

them to the two remaining chairs arranged in a semi-circle around Oberst Braun’s desk. Schroeder’s cane clattered on the floor as he tried to sit, setting the room on edge.

“I know you’re all wondering why you are here. It’s to settle the fate of Pte. Drummond, who will soon face a firing squad for the murder of Pte. Vogel,” said Braun.

“What do you mean to settle? I thought that was already decided,” said Fuchs with rising anger.

“You will contain yourself, Oberleunant Fuchs. You are not the commandant of this camp, and you will act accordingly unless you prefer to face charges.”

Fuchs showed no reaction, looking ahead, as though Braun had just dressed down someone else. DeGrace looked at Braun, who was surveying the room before continuing. There was a hint of a smile in his eyes.

“Oberleunant Fuchs, like the rest of you, is probably wondering why I am going to all this trouble to establish how Pte. Vogel died, and at whose hands,” said Braun.

For me, the critical question is this: If Pte. Drummond did not kill Pte. Vogel, then who did? We can’t afford to have a murderer running loose around the camp. If that is the case, who knows who will be next? Perhaps, you, Oberleunant Fuchs,” he said with a smile.

Then, turning to DeGrace. “The floor is yours, Pilot Officer.”

DeGrace was to say later it was his life's performance and the spark that later embarked him on an acting career when he returned to Canada.

He nodded to Braun, unclasped his hands and thanked everyone for coming. “I began my investigations, not because I did not want Pte. Drummond to be executed, but on the improbability of his guilt. And that was based on the simple conclusion that Pte. Drummond had been knocked unconscious before Pte. Vogel was murdered. It could not have happened any other way.

“To be guilty, Pte. Drummond would have had to kill Pte. Vogel first before someone else – a third party –knocked him out and dragged his body under the wire, where he was found a minute or two later by Cpl. Bergmann and Oberleutenant Fuchs.

“If so, where is this person, and why has he or she not appeared to take credit for avenging a murder. A mor e probable explanation is that Pte. Drummond was discovered while still under the wire by Pte. Vogel, who knocked him out with the butt of his rifle, before being knocked out himself and being repeatedly stabbed.

“Pte. Drummond’s spike was a nice touch, a sort of icing on the cake. But it was also gratuitous, and like all gratuitous things, stupid.”

Fuchs stood and shook his fist at DeGrace. “How dare you. This man dares to suggest that a good German soldier was murdered by one of his –“

“You forget yourself, Oberleunant. If you cannot restrain yourself, we will do that for you,” said Braun, who had risen from his seat. “You will have an opportunity for your say later.” Then, turning to DeGrace, “are you finished, Pilot Officer?”

“Not quite.” DeGrace liked pauses and the gravitas they suggested. “Are you aware the Oberleunant Fuchs knew that Pte. Drummond was going to escape three nights ago, the time he planned to make his escape and precisely where?”

Fuchs looked at Robinson, who tried to ignore everyone around him.

“That’s quite an accusation,” said Braun. “But hardly something he should be faulted for.”

DeGrace again: “Yes, as far as it goes. But it does raise the question of whether he also knew the unnamed third person, who was party to Cpl. Vogel’s murder.”

“What about it, Oberleunant?” It was clear that

Braun didn’t like the way this was going, and all his instincts told him to shut everything down and postpone Drummond’s execution indefinitely.

“Before we get to that, commandant,” said DeGrace, “you might wish to examine what Oberleunant Fuchs’s real motives are in all this – beyond, of course, being on top of everything that goes on in the camp.”

“What are you getting at, Pilot Officer?”

“Ask yourself why Oberleunant Fuchs effectively set up the escape, created a situation where the guard was murdered, and clumsily tried to implicate the escaper in the murder?”

“Don’t stop now, Pilot Officer,” said Braun as DeGrace lapsed into silence for what seemed the 100th time.

“The murder of a guard is a serious event and not likely to go unnoticed in Berlin, and you can be sure the powers that be will not only hear about it but will be taking a serious look into the way you operate this camp.”

“So it comes back to you again, Fuchs.”

“It’s all speculation. None of it can be proved. My responsibilities at this camp are to ensure that no one escapes – so why would I go out of my way to set up an escape for anyone?”

Braun looked to DeGrace.

“I told you last night, commandant, that we had a witness. He is here now. Cpl. Robinson, will you please stand?”

Robinson got to his feet slowly, carefully avoiding the intense look on Fuchs’s face.

“Which is it, corpoal?”

“Oberleunant Fuchs did tell me that Pte. Drummond was planning an escape–and even knew the date. He told me he would make sure that no one would be in that area where Pte. Drummond hoped to make his escape.”

“Are you trying to make us believe that a German

officer would confide this kind of information to you?”

Robinson looked at DeGrace for guidance. DeGrace nodded and smiled to reassure him.

“Oberleunant Fuchs told me this because he was using me to spy on my fellow POWs. He told me several confidential things to get my co-operation.”

DeGrace broke in: “Tell the commandant what the Oberleutaunant had said about him.”

Robinson bowed his head and showed no signs of responding.

“Well, Corporal?” Braun’s voice had suddenly taken on a hard edge.

“He told me the Russians were only 500 km away and that you had been given orders to kill all POWs before pulling out.”

Braun didn’t react in any way. “I can’t believe any German officer would say something like that,” he said, looking directly at DeGrace. “If you think you’ve advanced your cause, you’ve just ruined it. As far as I’m concerned, case closed.”

“Before you act on that decision, Oberst Braun, would you indulge me by hearing from one more individual? The person in question is Karsten Schroeder, father of Pte. Vogel’s girlfriend.”

Schroeder stirred uneasily at the mention of his name and gripped his cane with both hands.

“Before you talk to him, please keep in mind that I do not speak or understand German.”

DeGrace glanced at Pte. Drummond, who was looking at his watch. It was time for him to face the firing squad.

“What exactly am I to ask him about?”

“His agreement with Oberleunant Fuchs.”

Fuchs rose to speak but was stopped by Braun’s raised hand. His voice was hard and cold when he resumed talking and a few seconds of silence between each exchange,

which went on for almost 15 minutes.

Everything suddenly stopped. There was a commotion outside, where some of the POWs had gathered at the main gate to protest Drummond’s execution.

Fuchs rose but was stopped cold by Braun, who signalled two guards to stand behind his chair. Wrayburn was smiling but kept his thoughts to himself.

“It appears there was an agreement between Herr Schroeder and Oberleunant Fuchs to stop Vogel from marrying his daughter. But he denies having anything to do with Pte. Vogel’s murder. According to Herr Schroeder, Oberleunant Fuchs promised to transfer Pte. Vogel when he became commandant.”

Fuchs had enough. He stood but was pushed back down by one of the guards.

“Let him speak,” said Braun.

“Thank you, commandant. We did have an agreement but at no time did it involve you in any way.”

“What is your version of the agreement?”

They were speaking in German, and the exchange was fast and to the point. Fritzi Schroeder kept shaking her head throughout it all.

“There was no weasel talk,” Wrayburn remarked later. Fuchs told Braun that he was interested in Schroeder’s daughter and would do everything he could to transfer Vogel elsewhere. But Braun wasn’t buying and kept pressing Fuchs to tell him who killed Vogel.

“It was Schroeder,” he blurted under the intense pressure that had been building since Robinson talked about his involvement with Fuchs.

“He was the third person.” Fuchs was out for blood and didn’t care who got hurt now.

“That’s not true,” said Schroeder, who whacked the seat of his chair with his cane to emphasize the point.

“You were there,” Fuchs hurled back. “And you

killed Vogel with one swing of that club you carry around with you.”

“What club? This?” Schroeder held up his cane. “This wouldn’t hurt a flea.”

“This is not the cane you brought to the camp three nights ago. It was the other one. When I told you I could not get rid of Vogel, you came to the camp with only one purpose in mind – to kill Vogel – so your daughter would be free – not to marry me but the son of a rich industrialist.” Schroeder seemed to shrink into the chair. Fuchs watched and smiled.

“Don’t sit, Oberleunant. We are not done.”

Braun let him stand for at least a full minute before beginning. “I cannot ignore the fact that you set this whole thing into motion. You knew exactly when the escape was going to take place. You assigned Pte. Vogel to the area. And you alerted Herr Schroeder about the escape and where Pte. Vogel would be that night.”

Fuchs shifted his weight from his left foot to his right and stared ahead.

“And to top it off, you told Schroeder you could not get Pte. Vogel transferred. You may not have killed Pte. Vogel, but you certainly set the stage for the murder to happen.”

Braun sat down and left Fuchs standing. “Exactly so. I also have no doubt you would like to replace me as camp commandant.”

***

Braun invited DeGrace, Wrayburn and Drummond to supper in his private quarters later that day.

“It was something you said, Pilot Officer when you suggested that if we were wrong, we would be allowing a murderer to run free within the camp with unforeseen consequences. That’s why I agreed to postpone the execution. I had to know for sure.” He touched DeGrace’s arm. “At what

point did you decide it was Fuchs?”

“I asked myself who had the most to gain from this. It wasn’t Drummond who failed to get beyond the wire. But if you were dismissed because of a bungled escape involving the murder of a German soldier during your watch, he saw himself as your natural successor.”

Coffee was being served when Braun rose and opened the China cabinet behind the table and brought back a bottle of Cognac. He added a shot of Cognac to each of the coffees.

DeGrace smelled it first and then took a big mouthful and let it warm him as it trickled down his throat. He raised his cup to Braun. “I could get used to this.”

Braun smiled, showing his gold tooth again. “I’m sure you will, Pilot Officer,” he said, raising his cup in a toast. “To better times, gentlemen.”

“Exactly so,” said DeGrace with a smile.

Death at the POW Reunion

“There’s a reunion of POWs at the Beatty,” said Cal Jennings, the city editor at the paper where I worked. “An old friend is coming. Denny DeGrace. We flew Spits together in the Battle of Britain.” He paused as if remembering he’d rather forget. “Make him the centre of your piece. And don’t come back unless you’ve got a great story.”

Jennings went to the Canadian Press wire room and emerged with three or four narrow strips of CP wire copy.

“Are you still here?”

Admiral Beatty was the only big hotel in Saint John at that time and a 10-minute walk from the newspaper. It was also the place for significant important events in the early 1950s.

A portrait of the admiral greeted me on the right as I headed for the desk clerk. “There’s a meeting of POWs,” I began.

The desk clerk, a thin-faced young man a few years older than me, didn’t bother looking up from the afternoon paper. “They’re on the second floor. In the ballroom. You can hear them from down here.”

I mounted the stairs, two at a time, passing two stragglers trying to sing “Roll out the Barrel.”

“What’s the hurry?” said the voice behind me.

“I’m from the paper, and I’m late,” I said, breathing

“So are we,” said the taller one, who looked he hadn’t shaved in a week. He had a deep-seated voice that came out like sudden gusts of wind. “Nothing’s going to happen without us. I was the Big X at the camp.”

You could hear the laughter and the rising volume of excited voices as we reached the top of the stairs. The younger man, who identified himself as Dick Ranger, a radio operator on a Lancaster before being shot down on a raid over the Ruhr, had a soft voice and a quiet smile that made friends easily.

“I hope you’re not going to write a story saying we’re a bunch of drunks,” he said as we entered.

“I was sent here to interview someone named DeGrace.”

“The Dip. You’ll like him. A little stiff at times but an incredible friend when the chips are down,” said the Big X, now a car salesman from Kingston, Ontario.

The noise levels rose in waves as someone new entered the ballroom. Individuals were moving from table to table, hugging the occupants. Some were crying. The smell of old cigars and cigarette smoke clung to my clothes as we found our way to one of the tables that had three empty seats.

“You guys seem to like tea,” I remarked to Ranger, seeing the teapots and teacups.

Big X and the rest of the table broke into laughter. It was against the law to sell or imbibe beer or spirits in restaurants or even in hotel dining rooms.

The Big X smiled. “I think you’ll like our brand of tea,” he said as he poured me a cup of Scotch from a hidden bottle in his inside jacket pocket. “There’s no rush. The Dip won’t be going anywhere soon, laddie. I’ll introduce you. What’s your name?”

“Can you spot him for me?” I needed to know

where he was in case things got out of hand. I had pictured DeGrace, tallish, rakish, daredevil Spitfire pilot wearing a white scarf, not the short, bland individual who held the floor at his table near the stage and setting everyone near him into fits of laughter.

“That’s DeGrace?” I somehow couldn’t make myself believe it.

“Wait until you hear him talk before you decide what he’s like,” said the Big X in a booming voice. “He’s a born mimic. I understand he’s now become an actor.”

I had barely taken more than five mouthfuls of Vat 69 when one of the other persons at the table offered me a refill from his bottle. I shook my head. “Still got plenty,” I said, trying to sound like a man of the world.

The Big X finished his third cup and slapped the table. “It’s time, laddie. I didn’t want you to meet The Dip on an empty stomach. He’d have me drawn and quartered if I did.”

He suddenly stood, told his friend to guard our seats with his life before trying to weave our way around the tables before we reached DeGrace, who was mimicking someone with a German accent.

“This lad wants to meet you, Dip.”

DG looked up, his cornflower blue eyes studying me for a few seconds. “How can I help you?”

“I’m from the paper. Cal Jennings has sent me here to interview you.”

“What on earth for, mon ami? Anyone else here today would make a better interview.” He paused to pour a coffee and add a couple of shots of Cognac. I didn’t know then about his false sense of modesty.

“He told me not to come back unless I had a great story and to weave my story about the gathering around you.

“Then sit down and join me in a coffee,” he said,

pushing the teacup he had poured in my direction. “How is the old mugger? I haven’t seen him since our Spitfire days. And why isn’t he here?”

I took a sip of his special coffee, as I learned later as he liked to call them. It was surprisingly good with a beautiful, intoxicating aroma. “He has to work.”

“Does he still pass out when he gets hammered?” Then, lifting his teacup: “A German officer introduced these to me. But for the love of St. Francis, don’t mention this in your story.”

He paused as a look of sorrow over his face. “While I was at the camp, I worked at the German Officers Mess. One of the officers who shared my love of Latin liked to talk about Roman writers. He introduced this wonderful elixir to me.” Another pause. “I wonder where he is now.”

I took out my pad and pencil. “Ready when you are.”

“What do you want to know?”

“First, something about you. I hear from Cal you’re from Campbellton. What else?”

“Like what?”

Where and when you joined the RCAF? What was it like flying Spitfires during the Battle of Britain? Your Malta days? And how you became a POW? Things like that.”

“Let me start with the last question first. After Malta, I was transferred to a Mosquito Squadron. The bomb I dropped had a delayed fuse, but something went wrong, and it exploded below the bottom of my plane and landed me in a German POW Camp.”

He kept glancing at the door as he rambled on. I had to stop him several times to help me catch up with my notes.”

He started for the door, and I followed. I knew there’d be no later if I didn’t stick to him.

Wrayburn had appeared in the doorway. “You al-

ways had a sixth sense, Pilot Officer,” he said with a smile. Wing Commander Hugh Wrayburn, who was CO at the camp, was with another former POW, Jeff Withers, who gave DeGrace a big smile and asked him who should lead Wrayburn into the ballroom.

“I think it better if you do, squadron leader. They’re used to obeying you.”

DeGrace turned to Wrayburn. “No one is expecting you, wing commander.”

Withers went in first and had everyone at attention when Wrayburn entered. Everyone suddenly broke ranks and crowded around him, laughing and crying at the same time. They hadn’t seen him since they had been rescued.

It took a good 10 minutes before things settled down. Squadron Leader Withers led him to an empty table near the stage and next to a table where I had interviewed DeGrace.

Angus Reid, the Big X, presented him with a giant bottle of Vat 69. “Heard you were coming from Jeff Withers and recalled how much you missed Vat 69 while in the bag.”

“And it’s still my favourite,” said Wrayburn, cradling the over-sized bottle in his arms.

“You’ll need a teacup to sample it, sir.” Just about everyone thumped their tables and raised their teacups to him.

Wrayburn cleared his throat and began hesitatingly. “How wonderful to see all your faces again. I cannot tell you how much it means to me. There is something about adversity that binds people together forever in a way nothing else can.” He paused to clear his throat again. “I am here because of the good offices of Squadron Leader Withers, who sought me out and made it possible for me to be with you. I shall never forget this.”

He paused again and sat down, wiping tears from both eyes.

Whatever he was going to say was cut short by Withers, who whispered: “There’s a detective at the door, and he’s asking for you, Wing Commander.”

Wrayburn got to his feet slowly. “Did he say what he wanted?”

Withers shook his head. “Should I send him in?”

Wrayburn glanced at the drunken, animated faces around him and shook his head. “I think it would be better if I go to him.”

I sat down to resume my interview with DeGrace. He didn’t respond. His attention was drawn to Wrayburn’s grey head bobbing as he talked to the detective just outside the door. Wrayburn suddenly turned and waved at DeGrace to join him. I followed DeGrace. I could smell a story.

“This is my friend, Dipper DeGrace, detective. The one I told you about, who’s an absolute whiz at solving crimes.”

Detective Ned McCormick of the Saint John Police Department looked DeGrace up and down and didn’t say anything.

“Pilot Officer DeGrace saved the life of one our airmen by unmasking the real killer of a German guard,” Wrayburn went on.

“Dipper?” Amusement danced in McCormick’s dark eyes.

Wrayburn smiled. “He was conferred that cognomen by brewing a special liquor from vegetable peelings and pouring it out to the rest of us, using an old dipper stolen from the German Officers’ mess.”

McCormick studied DeGrace’s face for a few seconds and stuck out his hand. “It seems to me I’ve seen you on TV.”

DeGrace nodded.

“Welcome aboard.” Then, turning to me: “Why are you here?”

“He’s with me,” said DeGrace before I had a chance to answer. ”What’s this all about?”

“I’ve just told the wing commander that one of the POWs was found drowned near Partridge Island.” He paused. “We suspect foul play.”

Wrayburn’s brown eyes zeroed in on McCormick’s face. “Who is it?”

“Victor Parsons. We called his wife in British Columbia and let her know. She was in shock but did manage to tell us he was going to a POW reunion at the Beatty. She plans to come here and make funeral arrangements.”

Wrayburn looked at DeGrace. “You remember him. He was a navigator on one of the Lancasters shot down over Frankfurt. After the war, we all thought that would be the end of killings.”

I’ll never forget the look in his eyes.

McCormick also sensed the change and tried on his best smile. “You guys seem to be having a great time in there. If I didn’t know better, I’d say the booze is flowing pretty freely in there.”

Wrayburn smiled but didn’t offer a reply. I took a deep breath, knowing it was illegal to serve liquor at functions in the hotel.

DeGrace came to the rescue. “Where is the body now, detective?”

“With the coroner. We expect to hear something tomorrow morning.”

“And the body? Where was it found?”

McCormick looked surprised, raising his dark bushy eyebrows a notch. “It appears the victim lost his balance and fell overboard, getting himself caught up in the netting of a nearby weir in the process. The netting somehow got wound up around his neck, and my guess, he choked to death.“

“When was this?”

“Close to noon, according to his friend, Peter McGill. McGill and Parsons had a few drinks at the Rivera with two other POWs and decided to row out to Partridge Island. They rented a dory to get there and walked around the island before starting back to join your gathering.”

“I remember them both,” said Wrayburn. “They were great friends, always looking after each other.

DeGrace nodded but didn’t offer a comment. His mind was elsewhere.

McCormick gave me a sidelong glance and then at DeGrace, and motioned for me to follow with a toss of his head.

“Tell you what,” he said, “we’ll give you everything we have if you run a separate story, asking anyone who had seen any activity around the weir around noon to call us. It would also help if you could talk the radio station into running our request as well.” McCormick’s soft voice made you want to do things for him.

Then turning to DeGrace: “If you want to see where we found the body, we’d better head off now while the sun is still working in our favour.” ***

The police launch was waiting for us at Market Slip. The tide was going out, and you could smell the seaweed. Seagulls were flying above us, looking for a scrap of fish in the greenish water. McCormick, who had taken a liking to Wreyburn, helped him down the ladder to the boat, which was bouncing up and down on waves from a passing boat. A stiff breeze had sprung up as we left the harbour, blowing spray into our faces as we turned towards the weir where Vic Parson’s body had been found.

The sun was still well above Partridge Island when the launch reached the weir. It took another 10 minutes to manoeuvre close to the spot where the body was found. Mc-

Cormick pointed to the hole in the netting they had to cut to free Parson’s body.

“A little closer, s’il vous plaît, mon vieux,”said DeGrace in an excited voice. “There appears to be something else in the netting. Just beyond the hole.”

It took a bit of manoeuvring until one of the officers operating the launch reached out and grabbed a piece of paper.

Back at the newsroom, I was punching out a page one story on the former POW's death, quoting Detective McCormick at length, and a sidebar – an appeal to the public to call the police if they had seen anything unusual happening around partridge Island.

“I’m afraid my feature on our old friend, Dipper DeGrace, will have to wait until this other business is over.

“What does he say about the death of another POW?”

“Not much.”

“He will. Believe me. Stick to him in the meantime.”

“It appears to be a death certificate. We can’t quite make out the name on the certificate,” said McCormick when we gathered at the police station the next morning. “Part of the certificate has been torn off, and worse still, the printing is very faint. I’d say it’s been exposed to the elements for too long to be of any use.”

”Just to ease my mind, detective, could you still check it out.”

McCormick nodded. “I’ll see what can be done.” He paused and held up another piece of paper. “The coroner’s report. It appears that Mr. Parsons had been given a hallucinatory drug, and probably the reason why he lost his

balance and fell into the weir netting.”

“Et peut-être, perhaps, he was beset, only Le Bon Dieu knows what, by something that made him find his way into the netting and have it wrap around his throat, just so.”

“I think it’s time for us to visit Peter McGill.” Said McCormick. “He lives over on the West side.”

Wrayburn stood. “You go, DeGrace. I’ve got to get back to the lads. I don’t want them to feel I’ve abandoned them.” He took a deep breath. “It’s just like old times.”

Twenty-five minutes later, McCormick’s cruiser rolled up in front of McGill’s two-storey house fronting Queen Square. The fog had moved in, and you could hear the mournful sound of the foghorn on Partridge Island. DeGrace shivered as he got out of the cruiser and joined McCormick at the front door.

“Mrs. McGill. Sorry to bother you. I’m Detective McCormick, and I need to chat with Peter for a few minutes.”

Gladys McGill glanced at DeGrace and me.

“Sorry, Mrs. McGill, this is Denny DeGrace and a reporter from the paper.”

“The one they call the Dipper. I’ve heard Pete talk about him many times.,” she said, opening the door and followed us into the living room. “Pete’s resting, but I’ll let him know you’re here. He’s had a tough time of it since the terrible accident with Vic.”

Pete McGill, who had been the life of the party at the camp, looked 20 years older as he sat down. His eyes lit up when he saw DeGrace and moved to sit next to him. “Dip, thank God you’re here. I feel responsible somehow for Vic’s death. I did everything I could to save him, but it was no use.”

His wife suddenly rose. “Where are my manners. Let me get you some tea.”

“Your wife’s English,” said DeGrace in one of his

half-questions, half-statements.

“Yes, Glad’s a great girl. Married her shortly after returning to Blighty after we got out of the bag.”

He reached out and touched her arm as she sat down near him with a tray of teacups and molasses cookies. “Vic was a great friend to us both. He dated Glad’s sister, Gloria, for a while, but they broke up and later, when she committed suicide, Vic was never the same after that.”

“Yet you two were the life of the camp – even in those dark days.” DeGrace tried one of Glad’s cookies and passed the plate to McCormick and me. “I know it must be painful for you, but can you try to remember exactly what happened.”

McGill nodded and paused for almost a minute before beginning. “It only took us 40 minutes to reach the island. We walked around the island, but he was starting to lose his balance – so we headed back to the dory we had rented.

“Everything was fine until we were passing the weir when he suddenly stood and took something from his wallet. Whatever it was, he ripped it up and threw the pieces into the breeze. He suddenly got dizzy again and started flailing his arms before losing his balance and falling overboard.

“The weir seemed to suck him in like an eddy. Before I knew it, the netting had somehow got around his neck.”

He paused and held his hands over his face. “Everything happened so fast I can’t remember it all. Just seeing him flailing his arms, trying to break free. But it somehow kept dragging him down.” Then a short pause. “Then suddenly he was gone.”

“We have big tides here, DeGrace. Some say the largest in the world. Perhaps an undertow,” said McCormick. McGill had been talking in gulps and suddenly looked tired and worn. DeGrace put his arm around him

and reached out for his hand.

“When I finally got back, I called the police and reported what had happened. That’s it.” He leaned forward, hands clasped in front of his knees with a vacant look in his eyes.

McCormick was about to speak, but was stopped short by DeGrace, who was shaking his head.

“He was my best friend. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget this.” Another pause.” I will never forget what he did for me when we were stationed in Britain. It was above and beyond. You know what it was like, Dip.”

“Where was he staying for the reunion?”

“Here, of course. Where else?”

Gladys McGill was watching everything. Her thin face was expressionless, and there was a coldness about her that made me feel uncomfortable. They had no children, and every year she seemed to draw more and more within herself, McGill told us later.

“He unpacked his bags in the spare bedroom as soon as he arrived,” she said, suddenly coming to life.

“When was that?” said McCormick.

She seemed to study his face as if searching for something she had lost. “Last night,” she said finally. “Peter picked him up at the airport and drove him here. He was up before Peter. I had heard him getting dressed in his bedroom and went downstairs to prepare breakfast. I knew Pete would be up as soon as he smelled the bacon being cooked.”

“Did he say anything?” said McCormick, who wasn’t giving up. “We’re trying to figure out what he did.”

She shook her head and started placing our teacups and leftover cookies on the tray.

***

We were crossing the Reversing Falls bridge when

McCormick glanced at DeGrace. “You’re surprised I didn’t take him in.”

“I think it was a wise decision.”

“Yet he’s the only logical suspect. He and Parsons were alone in the dory when Parsons died. No one else was there. Who else could have killed him?”

“Unless, unless, mon ami, there was a third party we don’t know about.”

“I gather you don’t think he’s the murderer either?”

“But he could be an accessory – if there were a third person with them at that time – someone he’s protecting, perhaps.”

“What do you suggest?” said McCormick as we wheeled into the police station. “I hate to say this, DeGrace, but it has to be someone the Parsons and McGills know.”

McCormick opened the door to his cruiser. “When does your reunion break up?”

***

Amanda Parsons’ plane was late and DeGrace, who had just returned from the ticket desk, looked at McCormick and Wrayburn. “They say her plane will touch down in five minutes or so.”

The first person who emerged from the plane was a short, ultra-thin blonde with a face that still could turn heads.

“That, mes amis, is the wife of Mr. Parsons.”

“You knew her, DeGrace?” said Wrayburn as we watched her enter the waiting room.

“No. She is the only one looking around for the entrance.”

Wrayburn went to meet her as soon as she entered and introduced himself, and pointed to us.

“I have to tell you,” she began in a low sultry voice. “I didn’t have good feelings about this trip and begged Vic

not to go,” she added as we made our way out of the airport. “It was his one chance to meet the people he spent two years of his life with at that camp.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes. I thought it odd at the time. Something to the effect as It’s time to set the record straight.”

Wrayburn took her arm as we walked to the cruiser. “A group of Vic’s friends have volunteered to help you with the funeral arrangements and anything else you might need.”

“That’s really sweet. I can’t wait to see all of Vic’s friends. He talked so much about them. Especially, someone, they called The Dip.”

DeGrace nodded from the front seat, and she smiled a reply.

“He did say he needed to talk to you about something he’s kept secret for all these years. He wanted your advice.”

***

I met DeGrace in the Admiral Beatty lobby, and we headed out for the police station, a good 10-minute walk in the fog from the hotel. I was surprised how fast DeGrace walked for someone of his height.

McCormick and Pete McGill were smoking and sampling the station’s coffee when we arrived.

“Sorry, Dip, didn’t know you were also part of this morning’s meeting,” said McGill, looking at DeGrace and stubbing out his cigarette. “I gather it’s about Vic.”

“Just a few more things we’re not certain of,” said McCormick.

“Shoot.” McGill glanced at DeGrace and tried to smile.

“Before we begin, Pete, your wife, mentioned that you picked him up at the airport. Did you stop anywhere along the way?”

McGill nodded. “He wanted to stop at the SMT bus terminal for a minute. When I asked why? He told me he had an uncle in Hartland and wanted to visit him for a few days before heading back to B.C. He gave me the ticket for safe-keeping. I put it in my wallet so it would always be handy in case he suddenly needed it. You can never tell with people. Vic could suddenly change his mind at times.”

He reached into his back pocket and withdrew his wallet. “Here it is,” he said, handing it to DeGrace.

“Did you happen to read it?”

McGill shook his head.

“It’s a one-way ticket to Halifax.” McCormick cleared his throat. “We discovered a hallucinatory drug in your friend’s body. We’re trying to figure out how it got there,” said McCormick in a low, soft voice.

“If you’re asking me, I haven’t the foggiest.”

“Did you stop anywhere along the way to get the boat yesterday?”

“We decided to drop into the Riv and see if any of the gang were there before heading down to the harbour to rent a dory. Walt Williams and Harry Oliver were at the counter, and when they saw us come in, the four of us moved to a booth, where they poured a wee drop into our coffees.”

Any idea what it was?” McCormick again.

“What about Walt and Vic? They did not seem to be the best of friends when we were in the bag. Any idea why?”

McGill leaned towards DeGrace. “Vic swore me to silence,” he said in almost a whisper. “But now that he’s dead, that doesn’t matter anymore. Evidently, Vic was sweet on my wife’s sister, Gloria, but Walt took one look at her – another blonde – and moved in on Vic. I had a hunch, though. There was more to it than that.”

“Did either show any animosity towards each other

while you were at the Riv,” said McCormick.

McGill shook his head. “If you think that one of them added something else to his drink, think again. I had the same brand as he did – and from exactly the same bottles. I wasn’t affected in any way.”

“That leaves McGill again as the most logical suspect,” said McCormick, as we headed back to the police station.

“Peut-être. Perhaps.”

“Well, I’m stumped. Don’t mind telling you.”

“We don’t have all the facts yet, mon ami. I have always found it profitable to have two or three chats with the coroner.”

***

Tom Baxter thought he heard someone come in and looked up with a start to see McCormick bending down to pick up one of the test tubes he had knocked on the floor. Dr. Baxter started to remove his rubber gloves. “How may I help you, detective?”

McCormick, who never really felt quite comfortable in the morgue, tried to smile and introduced us.

“Why is someone from the newspaper here?”

I didn’t wait for McCormick to explain. “I’m writing a story on Mr. DeGrace and go where he goes while he’s visiting Saint John.”

Baxter shook his head. Now in his early 50s, he had become prematurely grey a decade earlier. It made him look older than he really was. He took off his glasses and pointed for us to follow him to his office, just off the examination room. He sat back in his chair and lit a cigarette. The large window behind him brightened the room and the atmosphere.

“Now that you’ve decided to interrupt me, why are you here?” he said to McCormick. He had a surprisingly deep voice and enunciated each word carefully.

“We were wondering if anything else had turned up in your examination of Mr. Parsons’ body.”

“Nothing material. What I gave you yesterday still stands, detective.”

“We are not questioning that, Dr. Baxter,” said DeGrace. “We were wondering if you noticed anything else, apart from your medical examination, something out of the ordinary.”

Dr. Baxter lifted his head for a few seconds. “Now that you mention it. I found a ring. A woman’s ring. And a key.” He opened the drawer of his desk. “This key,” he said, tossing it to McCormick.

DeGrace nodded and offered a smile. When I got to know him better, I learned he did that frequently when he had an epiphany. ***

“Well, what is it?” asked McCormick as we left the coroner’s office.

“The ring, mon ami. A woman’s ring. Sans doute, for the sister of Peter McGill’s wife. I suspect it will eventually figure in Vic Parson’s murder and the ending of your investigation.

“Murder? So you’ve come around to my way to thinking.”

“I never thought otherwise, mon ami.

“And the key?”

Probablement, it is the key to his safety deposit box. I suspect answers to a lot of questions will be found there.”

“His wife should know,” said McCormick as we passed the Capitol, next to the hotel.

***

“Good to see you again mon ami.”

“And you, too, Dip,” said Walt Williams, putting his

arms around DeGrace. “It’s been a long time. A short pause. “What’s this all about, Dip?” he said, looking at McCormick.

“We need your help,” said McCormick.

“Shoot.” Williams sat back. His slate grey eyes suddenly turned wary.

There was hardly anyone in the Riv at this time of the day, and DeGrace waved to one of the waitresses to order coffees for everyone. I ordered a soft drink.

“It’s about Vic. As you know, Walt, he died yesterday in a tragic accident.”

Williams nodded and sat back in the booth as if distancing himself from us.

“We understand, Mr. Williams,” said McCormick, “that you and another former POW saw Vic and Pete at the Riv before they left for Partridge Island.”

“I knew there was bad blood between you two at the camp, mon ami. I understand it was over a woman he was fond of.”

“Yes. Vic was a poor loser. I told him I wanted her for a while. But that wasn’t good enough for him. And for your information, she made the first move.”

“What about yesterday, Mr. Williams?

“He was nice as pie. Even put his arms around me when they left.” Walt smoothed his dark brown hair and sat back again.

The cashier at the front waved to me. “You’ve got a call,” she said, holding the phone out for me.

It was Cal Jennings. “Need you back here, pronto. We’ve got an eye witness to the boat death.”

***

“How have you been, Denny. It’s almost ten years since we saw each other. Lost track of you when you went to Malta and became one of their star aces. Wonderful to see you again.”

We went into the managing editor’s office, where an older man dressed in overalls was sitting quietly in front of the ME’s desk. The ME had left for a meeting with the publisher. You could smell the burnt paper from the stereo department above and see the closed phone booth, where we used to play tricks on new reporters.

“Denny, I’d like to introduce Charlie Long, who had just left the weir in question when he spotted the dory. But let him tell you.” Cal pointed for me to take notes.

Charlie, who liked to chew tobacco, was looking for something to spit into. Call nodded me to find him a waste paper basket from the newsroom.

“These gentlemen, Mr. Long, are Detective McCormick and my old friend from the war days, Denny DeGrace. They’re investigating the murder of Mr. Parsons.”

Charlie Long had a weathered face, a tick in his right eye and a smile that evoked smiles in return.

“I gather you witnessed what happed at the weir.” Charlie Long has lost his full upper teeth and now wore a plate. His weathered face smiled, and he nodded:

“When I saw the dory stop at the weir, I cut the engine and took out my binoculars. I saw one of the men suddenly stand in the dory and start to wave his arms. Then I saw the other man get up and push him overboard.”

“You’re sure you saw him push the other man overboard?” said McCormick in his official voice.

“It looked that way to me. And when I read in the paper this morning that the police needed help from anyone who might have seen what happened at the weir, I decided to come to the paper.” He took out a plug of tobacco from his upper overall pocket and offered it to us before taking a big chew.

“And you saw all this through your binoculars,” DeGrace asked suddenly.

“My boat was bouncing from the waves in the wake

of the Grand Manan Ferry – so I lost contact for a few seconds. When I could get a fix again, the man who was in the boat was trying to enter the weir. That was it.”

DeGrace and Cal Jennings stayed behind for a few minutes for a private talk. When they emerged, Cal was smiling in a way I never saw before. So was DeGrace.

“What now, DeGrace?” said McCormick.

“I’d like to stop by the bus terminal for a few minutes.”

“What on earth for?”

“Call it idle curiosity. I have a hunch.”

The SMT Bus Terminal was a short five-minute walk away. It had a musty smell that seemed to cling to your clothes even after you left. DeGrace headed for the lockers and asked McCormick for the key the coroner had given him.

“There’s a number on it. What is it?”

“301.”

DeGrace looked down the row of lockers. There was no 301.

“I could have sworn…”

“That still doesn’t explain the Halifax ticket,” said McCormick. “If he decided to go to Halifax, why not tell McGill that? It makes you wonder.”

“I’d like to talk to the person who sold him the ticket.”

A young woman with raven black hair and deep-set dark eyes smiled when he stopped in front of the wicket.

“A friend of mine stopped by a couple of days ago to buy a ticket to Halifax.”

“Mr. Parsons?”

DeGrace nodded.

“I won’t forget him in a hurry. He gave me a tip. A big one. That’s not something you forget in a hurry.”

DeGrace was about to turn when she added. “He

asked me if I could find someone reliable he could leave an envelope with for safekeeping. I suggested my uncle. He’s the janitor here. Helped me get this job.”

“Where do we find him?” said McCormick.

She flashed a smile at McCormick. “I’ll buzz him. Hang on.”

Two minutes later, a man in his early 60s headed in our direction. “You wanted to see me?” he said to his niece.”

“Yes,” said DeGrace. “This is Detective McCormick. He’s investigating the death of a gentleman who gave you an envelope for safekeeping two days ago. Do you have it?”

“He told me unless I was shown a certain object, I was to destroy the envelope and its contents after a week if he did not redeem it before then.”

DeGrace made a sign to McCormick, who produced the mysterious locker key.

“That’s the key I gave him. Just wait a minute or two, and I’ll get the envelope for you. It’s the key to my private locker,” he said, turning to go.

“Well done, DeGrace.”

DeGrace lowered his head in false modesty. I didn’t know then, DeGrace, was anything but.

Vic Parsons letter was in our hands five minutes later. We decided to read it at McCormick’s office:

If you are reading this, it means I am dead and would like you to carry out my mission to set the record straight about one of our fellow POWs.

Before being shot down over Frankfurt and my stay in the POW Camp, I fell in love with a young English lady called Gloria Perry. We planned to get married, but she met Walt Williams one day and fell head over heels in love with him. She became pregnant, and Walt told everyone the child was mine and left her abruptly. In the meantime, he had met someone else who took his fancy, when she discovered

who, she committed suicide.

The child could not be mine. Gloria and I never had intimate relations.

And when she died, Walt blamed it all on me, knowing all the while that the child was his.

I had hoped to expose him at our reunion. It was not just abandoning Gloria when she needed him most but for something even worse. Something I stumbled on by chance. It was near the end. I was sick that day and was trying to sleep when I heard Fuchs come into the barracks.

He and Walt talked in whispers. It was the final month of the war. Fuchs told him he had recruited a number of German guards to kill everyone in the camp and scatter before the Allies had arrived.

It appears that Fuchs had taken a great liking to Williams and told him he would help keep him out of harm’s way when the killing began.

Williams never told anyone about this. The next day, a forward detachment of British soldiers arrived at the camp and freed us. Fuchs was taken prisoner.

Wrayburn bowed his head and sat down, leaving the room in silence.

Where does this leave us?” said McCormick. “Williams was nowhere near the bay the day Mr. Parsons died?”

“Walt Williams seems to attract a lot of people. Surprising ones,” said DeGrace to himself. ***

The farewell dinner was held in the ballroom where they had gathered two days before. Everyone was there, including the mayor, two high-ranking RCAF officers from Ottawa, with Jeff Withers acting as MC and their host.

I sat with DeGrace, Detective McCormick, the Big

X and his friends at a table near the front. McCormick and DeGrace traded whispers. The only thing I heard was, “are you sure.” Whatever it was, DeGrace nodded as they sat back to listen to the proceedings.

Once the speeches were over, Jeff Withers led everyone in the singing of Lilli Marlane, The White Cliffs of Dover, Wish Me Good Luck and the RCAF Theme song. Big X filled my teacup with Vat 69 and was about to pour one for McCormick when DeGrace stopped him.

“He’s having coffee with me.”

The Big X smiled knowingly and returned his flask to his inside suit pocket.

Everything was in full swing now, with just about every table singing a different wartime song. Wrayburn circulated among the tables, slapping backs and laughing at camp stories. He glanced at Withers, who used his knife and water glass for attention. It took at least five minutes for the noise to ebb away. He nodded to Wrayburn, who took his place at the head table.

Wrayburn took a quick mouthful of coffee and cleared his throat. “You all know by now that our fellow POW comrade, Vic Parsons, drowned in a freak accident on the first day of our get-together. It has cast a pall over all our celebrations.” He paused as if remembering something. “I never thought we would have to face another untimely death in our ranks. Please stand with me and bow our heads in tribute.”

Someone started singing O Canada and the whole room joined in, ending in thunderous applause that almost shook the room.

“I would like Pilot Officer DeGrace and Detective McCormick to talk about Vic’s death.”

DeGrace stood and waited for the whispers to die.

“It is so good to see you all, mes amis. I will never forget you. All of you occupy a special place in my memory. And I

am diminished by the death of any of you, and today, by the death of our friend and comrade, Vic Parsons.”

He paused to look around the room. “I also regret to tell you that one member of our little group is responsible for Vic’s death.”

I looked at Walt Williams, who seemed to shrink in his chair and at Peter McGill, who glanced uneasily at the other tables.

“We have an eye witness report who says Vic was pushed overboard from the dory he and Pete were in.”

Pete was about to rise, but DeGrace stopped him with the shake of his head.

“There’s more to the story than that. According to the coroner, Vic’s blood tests showed traces of a hallucinatory drug. When, where and how that drug was administered and by whom is our real question.

“We do know that Pete and Vic stopped by the Riv and shared drinks with Walt Williams and Harry Oliver. Pete received the same libations from the same bottle as Vic did. Pete, it should be noted, did not suffer any ill effects.”

Íf you’re trying to suggest that –“

“Sit down, Walt,” said DeGrace in a raised voice. I am not suggesting anything. Yet.”

I paused in my note-taking, wondering where DeGrace was going with this.

“Vic’s good wife is with us tonight. She told us Vic came to the reunion because he wanted to set the record straight,” DeGrace added, glancing at Amanda Parsons, who was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.

“He had fears for his life and wrote that note Wing Commander Wrayburn just read to us. Vic had it in safekeeping, but, fortunately, we were able to track it down.”

When he finished, it seemed everyone was holding their breath. Walt Williams struggled to his feet but was pushed down by the POWs on either side of him.

All eyes were now on DeGrace, who was still standing. “The question, mes amis, is who administered the hallucinatory drug to Vic. I thought at first, it was Walt, but it was also clear that the Vat 69 he offered to Vic was also offered to Peter, who showed no hallucinatory effects.”

“Told you so,” said Williams, shaking free from the arms that were holding him to his chair. “And now, if you no longer have any further accusations to load on me, I would like to take my leave.”

“Good riddance,” said a voice from the back of the room.

“I hope I have never seen any of you again,” he said, starting to rise again.

“Not so fast, Walt,” said DeGrace. “We have not quite finished with you yet,” he added. Then turning his attention to the rest of the room: “There is still the question of how this drug found its way into Vic’s body.”

“Give him hell, Dip.” Another shout, this time from the left.

“There was only one way left. He ingested it, himself, without knowing it. Where? At Pete McGill’s home.” He paused to look at Pete. “Sorry, Pete.”

“I hope you’re not suggesting I did it.”

“No, not you, Pete. Your wife.”

Pete turned to his wife, his mouth open and looking as though he were going to break into tears. “Why? Why, Glad?”

“He’s talking rot, Peter. Never met him before. Why should I?”

“That’s not quite true, is it, Mrs. McGill. You knew he courted your sister,” said DeGrace, meeting the hardness in her eyes with a smile.

“And when he talks about some kind of hallucinatory drug, I don’t even know what he’s talking about.”

McCormick stood beside DeGrace. “We have al-

ready sent two of our officers with a search warrant to check your house for medications and other substances,” he said in the softest voice imaginable.

Gladys McGill sat back, crossed her arms and glanced at Pete as if all this were his fault.

“You did not do this alone, did you, Mrs. McGill?” added DeGrace.

“Who else could it be?”

“What Vic did not say in his farewell letter was that Walt Williams left her for you. Your sister found out, presumably through Walt Williams, who turned out to be someone who thinks only about himself.”

“That’s not true. If that were, I’m sure it would not have been left out of the letter.”

“Vic and Pete were friends. He would never want to make his life miserable by knowing this.”

Gladys McGill uncrossed and crossed her arms again and sniffed the air as though she had smelled something rotten.

DeGrace ignored her and turned his attention elsewhere. “What about it, Walt? Did you supply the drug?”

“Hardly, you just can’t walk into a drug store and ask for something like that without a prescription.”

“We did a background check on you. Found you’re a representative for a pharmaceutical company.” Said McCormick, who was still standing with DeGrace.

“That doesn’t mean I gave any drugs to Ms. McGill.”

“No, it does not. But you did facilitate it. You knew Vic was coming to the reunion and that you suspected he had something bad for you in mind.”

Amanda Parsons was nodding. “I heard him having words with someone on the phone a week ago. I did not know who. Vic could be quite secretive at times.”

“All we’ve heard so far is talk. Just talk. And plenty of it.” He looked around the room. “You all know me. And

you also know the kind of person I am.”

“We thought we did. We’re not so sure anymore,” said a voice from a table at the back of the room.

“That story he concocted about Fuchs and me simply isn’t true.” A pause. “Did any of you ever see me talking to Fuchs? Ever?”

The room went silent.

“I often wondered how they found out about our tunnel,” said Big X at our table.

“Aren’t you forgetting about Robinson?”

“Robbie Robinson isn’t here,” someone shouted. “And the tunnel was after that. And you forget what he told his friend, Robbie – that Fuchs already knew about his escape.”

DeGrace turned to Pete McGill. “Did Walt ever call you before the reunion?”

“Not that I’m aware of.” He turned to his wife. “Did Walt ever call when I wasn’t at home?”

Gladys McGill gave him a stone-faced look and turned away.

“When did he call, Glad?”

She turned away and kept her silence.

“Did he ever come to the house?” Peter held his breath. “Why did he come?”

“Why do you think, Pete?” said Big X in a booming voice.

The room went quieter still.

“What about it, Glad?”

No answer.

“Did you tell him Vic was coming to stay with us? Did he give you something to give to Vic?”

“I think we have our answer, Pete,’ said DeGrace. “You fool.” The raw hatred in her voice sent shivers up my back. “You stupid, stupid bloody fool.”

Birds of a Feather

“Sawadee ka,” said the young woman, clasping her palms together and bowing behind the reception desk in the lobby of one of Hua Hin’s top resorts. “The general manager asked to see you on your arrival,” she said, looking at my reservation. “Please wait while I ring him.”

My friend, Denis DeGrace, wiped his forehead with a blue-lined white handkerchief. The hot morning sun, which he loved, seemed to follow him inside the darkened air-conditioned lobby. A soft, intoxicating citrus scent swirled around us. I was impressed. None of the other general managers I had met on my tour of resort hotspots in Thailand for my book on Thai spas made a point of greeting me.

A few minutes later, Scotty MacKenzie, a big-framed six-footer-plus, strode into the lobby from out of nowhere and headed straight for us with a broad smile.

“Mr. DeGrace. Thank God you’re here. You couldn’t have come at a better time,” he said, pumping DeGrace’s hand and ignoring me altogether. “We need to talk privately,” he said in a soft voice with a decided Australian accent.

After a brief chat with the receptionist to arrange to have our bags taken to our villas near the beach, he led us to his office, a short walk down a hidden hall, just off the lobby.

“Let’s sit over here, shall we,” he said, pointing to

the sofa and matching armchairs around a glass-topped table to the right of his desk. The bright morning sun filled the room and opened to the intense green lawns and sculptured chess pieces created from the greenery.

“I know you’re on holiday, but I need your help. We’re not sure what to do about it.”

DeGrace didn’t respond. MacKenzie, who towered over us, even while sitting, leaned forward, his greying eyebrows knitted in the shape of an arrowhead. “The van Schoonhoven family has chosen our resort— the rich diamond big bik-kies in Amsterdam— to celebrate the wedding of their only daughter, Trudy van Schoonhoven. All the guests are wealthy. “

He paused for a second before adding: “Their diamond necklaces and other jewels entrusted to our care have somehow disappeared.”

DeGrace suddenly perked up. He unbuttoned his blazer and clasped his hands. “I’m listening, Mr. MacKenzie.”

“Can you help us?”

At the mention of diamonds worth millions, I knew exactly what was running through his head – the Count of Saint-Germain, a mystery figure from the court of Marie Antoinette, whom DeGrace believed was behind all the major jewel thefts in the world over the past 40 years. No one believes him except for Phil Hilkers of the Toronto Metropolitan Police and me.

“Where were the diamonds kept?”

“In the resort’s safe. It’s a massive thing and has a locking mechanism that can only be opened by a special code.”

“Aside from you, who else knew the code?”

“No one. Besides, the code changes every week as a safeguard.”

“How much would you estimate the diamonds to

be worth?”

“Between $40 and $50 million, according to the owners.”

“Do they know yet?”

MacKenzie, who wore an RAF-style moustache, similar to DeGrace’s, shook his head. “They will be asking for them tomorrow night. That’s when all hell will break loose.” Another pause: “I’d rather eat a barrel of glass than face them.”

DeGrace’s cornflower blue eyes danced. “I don’t think it will come to that. Now, Mr. MacKenzie, what about showing me your safe.”

MacKenzie stood and opened the door on the opposite wall and reached up and pressed a recessed button just above the door frame. The back wall opened to reveal the shiny front of the safe. He then punched in the latest code. There was a pause before the code kicked in, and the door of the safe suddenly clicked open.

“When did you discover that the jewellery was missing?”

“Last night, when I was putting away a necklace from a late arrival.” He paused before closing the door to the safe. “Could I interest either of you in a drink?”

“I would prefer a coffee,” said DeGrace, pausing long enough to add: “With a shot of Cognac, s’îl vous plaît.”

“Sounds like my kind of drink,” said MacKenzie, unscrewing the top of the Cognac bottle and pouring a double shot into two mugs before adding the coffee. “I think I’ll join you.”

DeGrace cradled the mug in both hands and smelled the Cognac before taking his first sip. “By the way, Mr. MacKenzie, does your company know about this yet?”

MacKenzie, who had just taken his first mouthful, nodded. “So do the police. Everyone decided to wait until you arrived. It seems your fame as a solver of crimes has

preceded you.” He paused to smile. “You will, won’t you?”

“I need to hear more and talk to your police.”

“If it’s a matter of fee ….”

“It never is,” There was an eerie quality to DeGrace’s voice. His face had become wrinkled in recent years, but his eyes still had the power to dazzle. That was not often in later years.

“The police have stayed away, pending your arrival. By the way, I’d feel a hell of a lot easier if you called me Scotty. Everyone else does.”

I could have told him it was a waste of time but decided not to say anything.

DeGrace, in case you don’t know, is a sometime actor who made a name for himself on Canadian TV and at the Stratford Shakespearean Festival before becoming a well known private investigator.

“Before I decide anything, I’d like to have a word with your police.”

“Then why don’t we have a private lunch in my quarters with Officer Nopparat Jianukul of the Hua Hin Police.”

DeGrace and I left a few minutes later to check into our rooms that fronted the beach of the Gulf of Thailand and surrounded by lush greenery and towering palm trees. I finished unpacking first and encountered a young man with a carafe of coffee and a bottle of Cognac, knocking on DeGrace’s door.

“Did you see the bathroom?” DeGrace was pouring himself a coffee and smiling. “It has a shower on the outside.”

I had missed something during unpacking and making an appointment with the spa manager to take pictures of her reception and spa area and do an interview with her for my book.

***

DeGrace was still wearing his blazer when we left his villa. “If you think it’s hot now, DeGrace, in another hour, you’ll be dying of the heat.”

The spa was located in a separate building, a short walk from the lobby along a pathway fringed with red and yellow flowers. A warm breeze from the gulf stirred the palm trees. Spa reception was up a short flight of stairs and into an air-conditioned environment.

“Khun Sup,” I said, greeting Supanee Wattana, a short, thin woman with large dark eyes and a ready smile, who also clasped her hands together and bowed.

Sup, her Thai nickname, paused to take a call, speaking in English to one of the guests.

“Do they always bow and do that every time they see us?” asked DeGrace.

”It’s their way of showing respect. Thai people are very kind, and it’s customary to offer one back.”

I did a lengthy interview with Sup and took some pictures of the grounds and the Gulf of Thailand's light blue waters, and the resort’s white sandy beach. It was a beautiful November day with an intense blue sky with no clouds and the hint of land somewhere in the distance.

When I returned, DeGrace was in the middle of facial treatment and arguing with a young therapist, wearing a grey uniform, who wanted to cut off his moustache. The moustache was a badge of honour for DeGrace, who had worn it since he flew Spitfires in Malta before being shot down after D Day while on a mission over Belgium. He spent the rest of the war sitting in a prisoner-of-war camp in Germany.

He was about to say something harsh when I intervened, suggesting he take a tour of the spa and its treatment rooms with Sup and me.

DeGrace had his mind on other things. “Do you get to know most of the resort’s staff on your job?” he asked casually.

Sup offered an indulgent smile. “We give every new staff member at the resort a treatment on the day they start work so that they can talk to our guests about our treatments with authority.” She paused. “You get to know people differently in the treatment room. The defences come down, and you learn things sometimes you do not want to know.”

She guided us to a relaxation room on the other side of the spa, where guests go after their treatments. “What would you like?” she asked, pointing to a teapot and pitchers of juices and herbal drinks.

DeGrace shook his head.

“About my fellow workers. We are a happy family and look out for each other.” Then, her face suddenly serious: “What is this about Mr. DeGrace?”

DeGrace was silent as we left the spa. It was just past noon, and Scotty MacKenzie was waiting for us when we entered the lobby.

“Officer Nopparat Jainukul is waiting for us,” he said, turning to stop a passing waiter to talk to him about arrangements for the wedding dinner. “It’s already been one hell of a day. Some guests are more demanding than others. Except this time, we’ve got a full house of them.”

MacKenzie’s quarters were something out of a tourist brochure – an oversized luxury suite with its kitchen, dining room, pantry, living room and two bedrooms with private bathrooms. The red mahogany floors gleamed in the sunlight, and the muted light brown walls were hung with large pictures of famous Hua Hin landmarks. MacKenzie hung his light blue jacket on the back of his chair.

Officer Jainukul was introduced to us as we took our seats. “I am delighted to meet you, Mr. DeGrace. All of us at the station have read so much about you and your exploits over the years that we sometimes think we already know

DeGrace was seated next to me on the left side of the dining room table, made of solid dark-stained oak. A tapestry showing Kinaree figures in an imaginary mountain area. I was to learn later that the Kinaree were figures from Thai mythology – half-woman and half-bird.

“I understand that Mr. MacKenzie has already briefed you. Have you reached any conclusions?”

“Not yet, Officer Jainukul. I like to familiarize myself with the surroundings and the people before any investigations.”

Officer Jainukul smiled. “Call me Nop – my Thai nickname. All my friends do.”

“Mr. DeGrace hasn’t yet decided whether to help us,” said MacKenzie, who tucked into a salmon macaroni salad with Italian bread from the resort’s bakery.

“Oh, but I have,” said DeGrace, who smiled as he took his first mouthful.

“What made you decide?” asked Nopparat, “if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Mr. MacKenzie’s House of Horrors.”

Nopparat looked at MacKenzie, who was smiling for the first time since we met. “I’ll explain later,” said MacKenzie,. Then, turning to DeGrace: “What can we do to help you?”

DeGrace, holding his coffee cup in his hands, sat back. “For one thing, who has access to your office regularly?”

“Not many people. My offsider. I’m sorry, the general assistant manager, and our chief financial officer and the head of marketing.”

“That’s it?” DeGrace liked to be precise.

“Other than the maid who comes twice a day to clean up.”

***

Armando Castelli, the resort’s assistant GM, looked like an athlete and carried himself like an up-and-coming member of its management team. It was clear he had MacKenzie’s confidence by how MacKenzie seemed to relax when he entered the room.

“What’s this all about, Scotty?” he said in a deep baritone voice, taking the rest of us in at a glance. “And who are these good people?”

“It’s about the missing jewels.” He paused to invite Castelli to join us at the table. Then, turning to Nopparat, “this is Officer Jainukul of the Royal Thai Police and the other gentlemen beside me –“

“I already know. Everyone’s been talking about Denny DeGrace since he checked in. I understand you speak Italian,” adding as an afterthought: “Se posso essere di servizio --”

“Grazie. Thank you for offering your services. I would be interested in your insights about the missing jewels.”

“I don’t think it’s any of the staff but a stranger who knows all about the big wedding, who’s been here long enough to know where the GM’s office is and probably where the jewels are hidden.”

He paused to make a point: “Even I don’t know where the safe is.”

***

“Is something wrong?” Arissara Rattana, the resort’s chief financial officer, spotted Nopparat in his grey police uniform and the red lanyard on his left shoulder and felt immediately apprehensive.

“Nothing that concerns you or your department,” said MacKenzie. “We need your advice. Other than the van Schoonhoven group, how many others are there?”

Arissara sat back, her thin face still taut, and started to count mentally. “I can’t swear to this, but I think 11. What

is this all about, Mr. MacKenzie?” Her voice quivered. Why can’t people be like things, she wondered? With things, what you saw was what they were.

“Could you kindly provide me with a list?”

Arissara looked at MacKenzie and then at DeGrace. “When will you need it?”

“This afternoon,” said DeGrace.

MacKenzie’s ruddy face looked redder than usual. “We just want to be careful about the safety of the valuables entrusted to our care. We would appreciate your thoughts on anything we could do to ensure that our guests’ valuables leave with them.”

DeGrace caught her as she turned to go. “Have any of your guests been particularly friendly to you or any of your front staff?”

She looked at DeGrace and studied his face. “Strange, you should ask this. One of our guests, Mr. Harry Woodside from London, has been showing an interest in one of our front desk personnel. He’s invited her out, but staff are not permitted to socialize with guests. I reminded her of that twice. But it hasn’t stopped him.”

“Could you point him out to us?” said Nopparat.

Arissara nodded. A first smile hovered at the corner of her mouth.

Khanjanaporn Nantakarn, the director of marketing, looked at home as she sat down at the table opposite DeGrace. She had a round face, framed by shoulder-length hair that bounced when she moved her hands, and that was just about every time she talked. Her voice was husky and carried a subtle flirtatious tone. Her dark eyes scanned DeGrace’s face and seemed to smile as she spoke. DeGrace has just asked her about Woodside.

“Whether he might be a problem is another matter. I have a feeling there is something not quite right about him.

Definitely not marriage material. But I could have a private tête-a-tête with him if you wish, Mr. MacKenzie.”

She left with a smile at Napparat and DeGrace. We all smiled, except MacKenzie.

He looked at DeGrace: “So where does this leave us?”

DeGrace shrugged. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m going to spend the rest of the afternoon getting to know your guests.”

Britt van Schoonhoven was in her 50s but looked 40. She was coming out of the resort’s hair salon with her daughter, Trudy, who looked like a younger sister. Both wore their light blonde hair the same way and walked with the same leisurely gait. “You’re that Canadian detective that everyone is talking about, aren’t you?” she asked in a slightly accented voice.

DeGrace bowed. “I see you are getting ready for the big day, Mrs. van Schoonhoven. If the ceremony matches how you and your beautiful daughter look, it will be an incredible success.”

“I understand you’re also an actor,” she said in French.

“Unfortunately, not a very good one,” said DeGrace with mock humility. DeGrace considers himself the best at everything he does.

“Pardon me for asking, M. DeGrace, but you speak with a strange French accent. I have talked to French Canadians before, but your accent is different somehow.”

It was a touchy point with DeGrace, whose Italian mother spoke to him only in Italian, and a French-speaking father, who spoke to him only in French.

“I understand, madame, that you and your friends have brought some every expensive jewelry with them for

your daughter’s wedding. Are you not concerned that a concentration of such wealth in one place will attract thieves?”

“Not at all. All our friends are wealthy, and this is a once-in-a-lifetime event in our lives, and we all – we and our good friends – want this to be an event we will remember all our lives. Besides, I understand the resort has an extremely secure safe that cannot be opened without a special code that changes every week, sometimes more than that. When we talked to Mr. MacKenzie this morning, he indicated they are now changing the code every day until we leave. My husband even tried to beat the code myself – and failed with flying colours.”

Then, turning to her daughter, “call your father and your finance and his family, too, and ask them to join us in the Pinnacle Lounge to meet M. DeGrace.”

Britt took DeGrace by the arm and led us into the lounge, located at the other end of the lobby. “They’re already here,” said her daughter in an exuberant shout.

You could hear the laughter as soon as we entered. A group of young women had surrounded a tall, thin man dressed in a white shirt and white slacks with a bird on his left arm.

The Pinnacle had wrap-around windows on three sides, showing the Sea of Thailand at the back, the lawns of greenery on the left side and the right, palm trees, and the jungle's thick vegetation.

“It’s Anastaas Groesbeck and his macaw,” said Trudy, with rising excitement in her voice. “Let’s get closer.”

“Before Gustaff answers any more questions,” said Anastas, “I must warn you that even though he loves to chat up young ladies, resist the temptation to touch him or pet him in any way. He has a big beak and will use it if you do.”

“Will I have a happy marriage?” asked one of the young women.

“It depends on how you behave,” Gustaff answered

in Dutch. Everyone, including the young woman in her early 20s with dark wavy hair, who asked the question, squealed with delight.

A few more questions, and few more squeals, before Anastaas, put Gustaff back in his cage. “Come, Gustaff. Come to papa,” said Gustaff said as Anastaas closed the door on the cage.

Trudy led us back to the table where Britt and her husband introduced us to her financé and parents. Andreas van Schoonhoven looked older than his wife, even though they were the same age. His blond hair had streaks of grey, and wrinkles had begun to surface at the corner of his soft blue eyes.

“I have been looking forward to meeting you, Mr. DeGrace. My good wife tells me you speak French. The word of your presence spread like wildfire from the moment you checked in. You’re quite a celebrity and a rare honour for us to meet you,” he said with a dazzling smile that had become his trademark in the diamond world.

“The general manager told us he would go to any lengths to make sure our valuables were safe. He wasn’t kidding.” Another smile. “Where are my manners? What would you like to drink?”

“A coffee with a Cognac on the side would be very welcome.”

“A great choice,” he said, waving for a waiter. I ordered lemonade.

“I must correct you on one point, Mr. van Schoonhoven. I am not here at the behest of Mr. MacKenzie but my friend,” he said, with a nod in my direction, “who is here researching a book on Thai spas. DeGrace is on holiday.”

DeGrace delighted to about himself in the third person, but a lot of people are uncomfortable with it. VanSchoohoven showed no signs one way or another.

“No matter,” said van Schoonhoven. “I’m confident that the arrangements Mr. MacKenzie has made are perfect.”

“What makes you so confident, if I may ask?” said DeGrace.

“I’ve seen his safe. I don’t think anyone can get into it without blowing a massive hole in the resort.”

“I’m sure you’re correct, Mr. van Schoonhoven.” Then, in a different voice: “Tell me about Gustaff.”

Van Schoonhoven couldn’t help smiling. “What would you like to know?”

“I’m intrigued by the bird and even more so why he is here.”

“For entertainment. As you can see, everyone loves him. Besides, Anastaas and I go back a long way. We went to school together. I established a successful diamond house and Anastaas to pursue an unsuccessful career as an actor. I don’t mean to denigrate actors in any way, but I think you get my drift.”

***

We returned to our villas, where we were summoned a short time later by MacKenzie, who couldn’t help his voice from shaking. “They’ve done it again. I don’t know how – this time to return some of the smaller necklaces. I had just changed the code an hour before. We went out to check with Khun Arissara about the guest list you asked for. When we returned, I discovered that the smaller necklaces had been returned.”

“Are you sure they are the same necklaces?” said DeGrace.

MacKenzie nodded.

“An interesting development, all the same.”

For MacKenzie, it was anything but. It was the end to everything he had worked for all his life. He had a fore-

boding sense that the end was coming and that he was powerless to do anything about it.

“There must be a way they come to know when your code changes and what the new code is,” DrGrace droned on, oblivious to what was going on in MacKenzie’s head.

“But how? The code is known only to me.”

“Perhaps someone is listening in on your call. Perhaps one of your telephone operators.”

“No. I get it on a special phone hookup that connects me directly to head office. So they don’t get it that way.”

“Another point, mes amis. How do they enter your office? It is locked, is it not?”

“The only other person is the maid who comes into my office twice a day to clean up. Today, she came to clean up after our lunch.”

DeGrace sat back and studied the ceiling. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“When we met earlier today, you mentioned that no one knew about the existence of the safe or where it was located – yet Mr. van Schoonhoven tells me he not only saw where the safe was located in your office but even what it looked like. He bragged of it to me.”

“I had no choice. He insisted on seeing it to assure himself that his jewellery and his friends' valuables were completely safe. But he promised he would not mention it to another living soul.”

“But that was not what you told DeGrace this morning.”

“All the same,” said MacKenzie, wondering what DeGrace was referring to himself I the third person, “he is a sensible man and knows the risk of telling anyone else.”

“You may be right, Mr. MacKenzie, but I would be prepared to bet $1,000 that everyone in his party knows

where your safe is located. In fact, even his friend’s macaw.”

The rest of us smiled except MacKenzie, who seemed to be holding his breath.

“This is not getting us anywhere. I’m sorry, Mr. DeGrace. I should have put my foot down. Mr. van Schoonhoven has a way of threatening people without really saying anything.”

“What do you think, Nopparat?”

Officer Jainukul, who had kept his own counsel since we had been introduced to him, leaned forward. “The key in my mind is who has access to Khun MacKenzie’s office.”

DeGrace looked at MacKenzie. “Aside from you and your maid, who else? Please think hard, Mr. MacKenzie. I agree with Nopparat. If there is another person we don’t know about, it could make all the difference.”

“No. That’s it.”

“What about your maid?” asked Nopparat. “If she was the last person who entered your office before the jewels were returned –”

MacKenzie picked up the phone and asked for Mook, the Thai nickname for Kanjanaporn Wattana.

“What?” A pause. “When did all this happen? Keep me posted.” He listened for a few more minutes. “Let me know how she is progressing.”

MacKenzie replaced the receiver slowly. “Seems Mook collapsed shortly after cleaning my office. Our nurse thinks it’s more than a fainting spell and called for an ambulance to take her to hospital.”

For some strange reason, DeGrace was nodding and smiling, probably digesting one of his epiphanies.

“This doesn’t have a good feeling about it. I hope to hell it isn’t one of those things like SARS that killed thousands of people a few years ago. That could ruin this resort. What am I saying? After tomorrow, it will probably be dead anyway.”

DeGrace, a hypochondriac of the first order since his heart attack, seemed to freeze. “What if it is something like SARS?”

“You’re all putting the cart before the horse,” I ventured. “But if it is SARS or something like it, there is a way to manage it.”

“That doesn’t solve anything,” said MacKenzie, a bit puzzled why I was offering this advice.

“My friend specializes in these kinds of things,” said DeGrace.

***

The news about Mook came at breakfast. MacKenzie was waiting for us and had already ordered a coffee and Cognac for DeGrace and a soft drink for me. Nopparat joined us a few minutes later.

The Bird’s Nest, the resort’s all-day restaurant, was located at the back of the resort with a full view of the Gulf of Thailand and was just starting to fill up. The wedding guests gathered at tables around us, with the noise level rising by the minute with the laughter of excited voices and the murmur of waiters dressed in white shirts and black trousers, weaving between tables.

“We’ve heard from the hospital. Mook has been diagnosed with Dengue Fever.” MacKenzie’s face looked ten years younger.

Dengue Fever was a new one for me, and I suspect for DeGrace, too.

“You get it from a mosquito bite,” said MacKenzie. “There’s an incubation period of anywhere from four to 12 days – so it’s hard to say where or when she was bitten. I know it sounds self-serving, but I do not believe it took place at our resort. We’ve never had a case of it,” he added after another pause. ”It may be a few days before we can talk to her.”

DeGrace decided he wanted to talk to Khun Sup after we broke up. We met the vanSchoohovens, who were leaving on a tour of Hua Hin with his friend, Anastaas Groesbeck, minus Gustaff.

“He’s still sleeping,” said Groesbeck with a laugh. “I think he was exhausted trying to entertain so many young ladies.” He laughed again. “I do what Gustaff wants, and he does what I want.”

“Have you heard the news?” said DeGrace.

Britt van Schoonhoven turned and smiled at us.

“About one of the resort’s staff,” I said. “I don’t know her name, but her Thai nickname is Mook. She fainted and was taken to hospital.”

Groesbeck’s face darkened unexpectedly. “Not a good omen. Do you know why?”

Dengue Fever evidently,” said DeGrace. “It’s not communicable if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“It’s not that. I just don’t like bad omens on such an auspicious occasion as this.”

We left a few minutes later. “Strange,” said DeGrace. “I cast our horoscopes before we left, and there was no mention of bad omens or anything else. It did indicate a problem that I would overcome.”

DeGrace was a great believer in the power of the stars and created his special astroglobe in our basement workshop. He also cast our horoscopes every week.

Unlike me, he loved the sun. It was only 10 a.m., but it was already a scorcher as we passed the life-sized chessboard and chess pieces carved from the greenery on our way to the spa. We arrived to find it busier than usual.

“It’s always like this on the day of the wedding,” said Suppanee as we sat by her desk. Her hair was swept behind her face and tied in a knot at the top of her head, making her look younger than she was.

Spa reception was one of the resort's architectural jewels – with its huge circular pool and fountain that splashed the heads of three mythical Thai figures. The spa’s treatments were built around the three pillars of traditional Thai medicine. The scent of eucalyptus and camphor seemed to be everywhere in the hushed, relaxed atmosphere.

“How can I help you?” she asked, after chatting briefly with a client booking an appointment.

“Have you heard about Mook?” DeGrace went straight to the point.

“Yes,” she said as her face darkened. “I can’t believe it. Have they diagnosed her problem?”

“Dengue Fever,” said DeGrace. Then, after a pause: “May I ask if you are related to her?”

“Yes. She is my cousin. I helped her get a job here.”

“I know you must be upset and worried about Mook, but I need to ask you a few questions. It’s important.” He paused. “Do you know if she has become friends with a Westerner in recent days?”

Sup leaned closer to us. “She came to me about two weeks ago and told me she had met someone who wanted her to go away with him. He was staying at another resort, she said, but then, two days ago, she changed completely and started crying every time we talked.”

“Did you get to meet this man?”

“Unfortunately, no. I should have gone with her anyway when they had dinner at another resort a couple of days ago, but we were swamped at the time.”

She paused to talk to two new clients for a few seconds before referring them to one of her therapists.

“Now, Khun DeGrace, what about a special oxygen facial to make you even more handsome?”

***

“We went through the entire room for fingerprints,”

said Nopparat as we took our seats. We found only three – Khun MacKenzie’s and Mook’s, and a third set we can’t identify,”

“What about the safe area?”

“That’s where we found the other set.”

The news seemed to re-energize DeGrace. “I did notice one small thing,” he said, pointing to the overturned vase on the end table opposite the entrance to the safe. It looks like someone cut the stems of the flowers on purpose. I think we can assume it was done by someone other than Mook, whose job it was to clean up the room.”

“The only fingerprints we found on the vase belong to Mook,” said Nopparat.

“I think this is somehow important, but I cannot tell you why, at least for the moment.”

MacKenzie kept glancing at his wristwatch. “In precisely five hours and 22 minutes, I will have a delegation at my door wanting their jewels. And I haven’t the faintest idea what to tell them. And if that weren’t enough, Bangkok keeps calling me to check on our progress.”

The telephone rang almost on cue. MacKenzie let it ring for a few seconds before picking it up. “They’ve decided to change the code again,” he said, sitting down at his desk and writing down the new code. He replaced the receiver. “Talk about closing the barn door ….”

“Courage, mon ami. Indulge me. What would you normally do next?”

“I would test out the new code. Then I would return and burn the paper on which I wrote down the new code and put the ashes in the wastebasket.” You could see the light go on in his eyes. “So that’s how it was done.”

“Peut-être, mon vieux. Perhaps. But let us test it first. Take a pencil and rub the lead on the new page.”

We all knew then how it was done even before MacKenzie confirmed it a few seconds later when he held

up the new page to show us. “It’s so stupid, the last thing you would think ….”

“Unfortunately, that does not alert the thieves when a new code has been sent to you. Somehow I think the thieves were a bit more resourceful than that. Check every inch of your desk.”

“What am I looking for?”

“You will know when you see it.”

It took about five minutes when Nop, who had gone to help MacKenzie, held up an object the size of a small oval pin. “I will take it to the station. In the meantime, I’ll put it out of commission.”

“A listening device. We must be on guard now, all of us, and have Noppart and his officers sweep our villas for other devices.”

Nop returned a minute later.

“One down, two to go,” said DeGrace with a smile. “The next question is who, aside from Mook, had access to your office, and how did they gain access without arousing suspicion or leaving any fingerprints? And finally, how were they able to leave with the jewels without being noticed.”

The telephone rang again. Arissasa told MacKenzie that two of the guests from the wedding party had visited the resort a year earlier.

“One thing before we break up,” said DeGrace. “I will need your help, Mr. MacKenzie. Can you loan me one of the necklaces for a small experiment I would like to conduct?”

“You will be careful?”

DeGrace looked at him over the rim of his glasses. “That will not be a problem.”

MacKenzie disappeared and brought him one of the necklaces a few minutes later. DeGrace put it in his blazer's left pocket and turned to Nopparat, who had been watching

with fascination. “I will also need your help, mon vieux.”

Then, turning to MacKenzie: “Please join us in the dining room at 2 p.m.”

We left a few minutes later and headed for the lobby, with DeGrace leading the way with his arm around Nopparat.

We positioned ourselves behind the crowd of young women who surrounded Anastaas Groesbeck and Gustaff. The yellow on Gustaff’s chest seemed brighter than usual, and the green, red, orange and blue areas on his wings and back seemed more intense in the sunshine that flooded the dining room from the shore.

Groesbeck seemed more tired than usual. He kept wiping his forehead with a large white handkerchief and paused to take a couple of aspirins at one point. He looked beyond the faces in front of him.

“What about you?” he asked, pointing in our direction. “Do you have a question for Gustaff?”

Nopparat stood. “Where are the diamonds hidden?”

“Wise as my friend is, I’m afraid you’ve reached beyond Gustaff’s repertoire of responses. Do you have another question?”

“I have,” said DeGrace, getting to his feet and reaching into his pocket and holding out a diamond necklace. “What does Gustaff think of these?”

Before DeGrace could finish, Gustaff left his perch and returned to Groesbeck with the bracelet in its beak.

MacKenzie, who had taken the empty chair beside Nopparat a moment or two earlier, flashed a broad smile at DeGrace.

Groesbeck suddenly grabbed the back of the chair beside him and sat down. Gustaff’s wings fluttered uneasily.

“He needs help,” DeGrace whispered to Nopporat, who rose and to help Groesbeck put Gustaff back into his cage.

“You need medical help, my friend,” said Nopparat in a low voice.

Groesbeck shook his head and tried to steady himself before slumping to the floor. Nopparat signalled to a fellow officer, positioned discreetly just outside the door. The ambulance arrived a few minutes later and left, with Groesbeck under the care of two attendants.

Back in The Nest, Gustaff’s admirers were crying and whispering among themselves.

“What’s happened?” VanSchoohoven asked MacKenzie as he sat down at our table. “And what are the police doing here?”

“It appears your friend collapsed during his performance with Gustaff.”

“Does anyone know what’s wrong with him?” For once, VanSchoohoven’s fabulous smile failed him.

“That’s to be determined. I suspect it’s Dengue Fever,” said DeGrace in an official voice.

“And Gustaff? Where’s Gustaff?”

“Officer Jainukul is looking after him at the moment.”

“Then I’ll take charge of him. I know my good friend, Anastas, would want that.”

“Perhaps, Mr. van Schoonhoven, I didn’t make myself clear. Gustaff will remain in police custody until we clear up other matters.”

“What other matters?”

“Please do not be coy. You know very well what I’m talking about. In the meantime, we would like you to remain with us for a while.”

The dining room had slowly emptied. VanSchoohoven looked around uneasily. “My wife will be worried.”

Nopparat joined us a few minutes later and nodded at DeGrace.

DeGrace patted vanSchoohoven’s hand. “Why not

tell us about it?”

VanSchoohoven sat back and crossed his arms. He was an old hand at poker and could smell a bluff a mile away. “About what?”

“Your plan with your friend to steal $50 million worth of jewels?”

“That’s nonsense.” He shook his head. “You’re getting senile.”

DeGrace smiled. “And you, mon ami, a poor loser.”

“I’m not saying another word without legal counsel.”

At that point, one of Nopparat’s fellow officers brought in Gustaff’s empty cage and set it on the table opposite us. He then proceeded to unscrew the cage from its deep gold-coloured base. We knew what was coming but couldn’t help be awed by the way hundreds of diamonds sparkled in the bright sunlight.

“How did my daughter’s necklace find its way into this place?” said van Schoonhoven.

“We thought you might say something like that –so we had everything videotaped from the moment Officer Nopparat went to assist your friend until this very second. We will continue to videotape everything until we finish itemizing each item by Mr. MacKenzie.”

“I’m in no way like my friend. I never knew he was like this.” If nothing else, vanSchohoven was smooth and a fast thinker.

We all watched in silence. Nopparat and MacKenzie had never seen DeGrace in action and watched openmouthed at times.

“Forgive me, Mr. van Schoonhoven, for forgetting to mention earlier that I have a friend at a senior level in London finance, who kindly checked out your financial situation for me. It appears you’re over-extended by $20 million.”

VanSchoohoven sat in silence. His face had hardened, and the lines around the corners of his eyes and cheeks deepened.

“It doesn’t take a genius to take the next leap in logic – $30 million for your daughter’s necklace from your insurance company and then using your skills as a jeweller to break up the settings, reset them and sell them in your retail operations.

“Using Gustuff to steal the diamonds was a stroke of genius. He could steal everything and never leave a single fingerprint. The only indication of his presence was an overturned vase and biting off the flowers from their stems.

“So was getting Mr. MacKenzie to show you the safe and taking the opportunity of putting your fingerprints all over it in a show of trying to break the code.”

Nopparat looked at DeGrace and then at me, not sure if there was more to come.

“S’il vous plaît, mon vieux. Kindly lead our friend to one of your most comfortable cells.”

***

It was an invitation-only farewell dinner for DeGrace attended by Nop, MacKenzie and the resort’s senior staff we met during our investigation.

Scott MacKenzie stood and spoke directly to DeGrace. “This envelope contains a thank-you gift from our company – a special pass to stay at any of our resorts and hotels anywhere in the world for as long as you like.”

There was a polite round of clapping from the others.

“Most of us aren’t sure what happened other than someone tried to steal $50 million worth of jewels and that Mr. DeGrace was able to reclaim the jewels under an almost impossible deadline. He is everything they say he is in all the stories written about him,” he said, glancing at me.

“From all of us, Mr. DeGrace, thank you.”`

“I have a question, Mr. DeGrace,” said Armando Castelli, the assistant GM. “What gave them away?”

“It wasn’t one thing, Signor Castelli, but a number of things. If you’re asking what their biggest mistake was, it was returning to the scene of the crime to put back some of the jewels.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Why on earth would they want to return some of the jewels?

“I suspect it was because the necklaces they returned were not as valuable as the other pieces they retained and, more probably, because they were unable to pack all the pieces in the base of the birdcage, where the jewels were hidden. That, and because they didn’t want the jewels found in their custody in the event of a search for the missing jewels. And there most certainly would have been one.”

Then, turning to Supanee, the spa manager, he added: “It was the information about your cousin, Mook, and her friendship with a man she had met weeks earlier. That, and her crying every time she met you in the last two days before coming down with Dengue Fever. It set me on the right path.

“Mook was greatly distressed about something. I suspect it was being cajoled into helping Groesbeck and van Schoonhoven pull off a major jewel theft. While she did not commit the theft herself, she did help van Schoonhoven gain entrance and lock up after his departure.”

DeGrace was in full flight now. I used to tell him he was a big ham, which he shrugged off, but I gave up once I understood he was always an actor – on or off stage.

“Then there was the extraordinary diligence of Miss Arissara, who found the names of five people from the wedding party who had visited the resort months earlier. Two names stood out: van Schoonhoven and Groesbeck.”

Arissara, who had let her hair down for the occasion,

left quite a different impression without her black-rimmed glasses.

“What gave you the idea that the jewels were hidden in the birdcage,” asked Khanjanaporn, who added, “call me by my Thai nickname – Joon.”

“Two things. A comment by Groesbeck, who thought he was smart, told me that Gustaff looked after him, and he looked after Gustaff. That and the instinct of macaws to steal everything shiny thing they see.

“It’s easy to imagine seeing Groesbeck standing outside the French doors in Mr. MacKenzie’s office and having Gustaff fly in and out with a bright, shiny diamond necklace until he had them all in a matter of minutes – and then hiding the loot in the large base of Gustaff’s cage.”

Mackenzie couldn’t resist jumping in. “It was van Schoonhoven who opened the safe, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“I have another question,” said Joon with a sidelong glance. “When can we expect to see you and your friend again? Our resort has a lot more to offer than mysteries.”

Everyone, including DeGrace, laughed.

“I’m not the marketing manager because they liked my looks, but then maybe...”

Satan’s Child

“Willyou help me or not?” Jolanka’s dark eyes had locked onto the face of my friend, Denny DeGrace, and never left it until he spoke.

“When did your child go missing?” said DeGrace finally.

“Two weeks ago while I was still in hospital – in fact, the day before I was discharged.” She closed her eyes, and her face muscles tightened. She was sitting in DeGrace’s oversized red leather chair.

DeGrace poured two of his special coffees – coffee with a liberal shot of Cognac – and offered one to her. “When you say missing, what do you mean exactly.”

Jolanka took a deep breath and opened her eyes. “I was informed by my doctor that my dear, beautiful baby boy had died. He said he had done everything he could to save him, but it wasn’t enough.”

She paused to look out of the large, diamond-shaped leaded window behind DeGrace. It was Victoria Day, and the lilac trees in our backyard were in full bloom.

“I am not normally like this, Mr. DeGrace. Forgive me.” She dabbed the corners of her eyes and took another deep breath. “I didn’t believe it. My child was strong and healthy, and there was nothing wrong with him. I told them I wanted to see my son. They argued against it, saying it would only make my loss ever greater. I insisted.” Then, after a brief pause. “I did see an infant.”

She paused for almost a minute, trying hard to find the right words for what she would say next. “It wasn’t my son. My son had a red birthmark behind his left ear. This poor child did not.”

She had been cradling her coffee mug for some time and now raised it to her mouth, inhaling the wonderful aroma of Cognac, before taking a sip. Her face suddenly turned hard again, highlighting her high cheekbones.

“They told me it was my imagination. But it wasn’t. I am not a silly person, Mr. DeGrace. I know what I saw.” She took another mouthful. “A mother always knows her child.”

Jolanka shook her head. “When I returned home, I told my husband. He met with my doctor, who suggested I was hallucinating and that I was not mentally stable.”

She paused as another look of pain crossed her face. “He assured my husband my child had died and recommended I see a psychiatrist as soon as possible.”

“Permesso, Signora, let me refresh your coffee.”

She nodded and smiled for the first time. “I did see a psychiatrist at my husband’s urging, and I told him the story. His advice?” Another smile. “To take a long holiday and have another child.”

DeGrace leaned forward. “I suspect he didn’t believe you either, and assume he was also in touch with your husband, as your prime caregiver before you saw him, as well as the hospital.”

Jolanka smiled. “You’re very intuitive.” She sat back. “Well, Mr. DeGrace, are you with me or do you also think I’m nutty, too?”

DeGrace didn’t have a chance to respond before she added: “One thing. Feliks, my husband, agrees with the doctors and nurses.”

“What do you think?”

“I believe my baby was stolen and given to another

couple, who had their child while we were both in the hospital at the same time.”

DeGrace cocked his head. “That’s a pretty bold claim to make, Madame Pozalski.” Then, pausing to change the subject: “If I am to help you, I will need the name of the hospital, the names of nurses who attended you as well as the name of the doctor who handled the birth of your son, and above all, the name of your psychiatrist.”

He nodded in my direction. In case you don’t know, DeGrace tends to treat me like a servant than an associate.

“Anything else, Madame?”

“My husband refers to our son as Satin’s child and a blessing that he died when he did.”

It was the first time I ever saw DeGrace left with his mouth open. ***

“Your thoughts, mon ami?”

“You don’t think she’s a bit odd? And that last bit about Satan’s Child is a bit over the top. I don’t think she’s in the middle of a conspiracy – if that’s where you’re going with this. That said, there is something quite odd about all this.”

“Exactement, mon ami.

“Yet you left her hanging.” You could never tell with DeGrace.

“I admit I was not inclined to take her on as a client, but when she mentioned her husband’s remark about their child, I changed my mind.”

“It changed everything.”

“When do we start?” After working with him for 28 years, I knew that something had triggered his curiosity. He was not a sharing type. It drove Hilkers – Detective Sergeant Phillip Hilkers of the Metropolitan Police – crazy over the years.

Joy Mitchell, head nurse on the maternity floor, sighed. She was on the plump side, and her round, good-natured face returned DeGrace’s smile.

The nurses' station had a large, floor-to-ceiling window with great views of the harbour. Recessed lights lit up her desk behind a white counter that separated guests from the station. A short distance to our right, another nurse was imputing data in a computer.

She played with a stack of papers for a few seconds, trying to think how to respond to his question. “I don’t know what more I can tell you, Mr. DeGrace. I remember Mrs. Pozalski very well. She had gone through a complicated birth, and with the death of her son, she just couldn’t accept the fact that her son had died.” She sighed and closed her eyes. “It never ends well for the people involved.”

“Was there an investigation to determine the cause of death?”

Joy nodded. “Heart failure, according to the coroner.” She paused as if to remember something. ‘It happens despite all our best efforts. I wish I could tell you we can know these things in advance, but there is no warning in some cases. It just happens, and we are left feeling helpless.”

She sighed again and withdrew into herself. She looked as though she was about to cry, but she forced a smile and stood. “Would you like to see our nursery?”

DeGrace nodded. “If you have the time.”

The nursery was only a short distance from the nursing station. Joy introduced the nurse on duty, who has just finished looking after one of the infants. “We have a nurse of duty 24/7 and the only people permitted in here are hospital staff or parents or grandparents.”

“Mrs. Pozalski?”

“Let me check.” She leafed through a folder and found the sheet that detailed the mother's status and how

many times she saw mothers saw their child. “Just once.”

Joy shook her head. “It appears that Mrs. Pozalski was not well enough. She had a complicated birth.”

“What about anyone else. One of the fathers. Can’t recall now. Another father was at the door at the time, and I had to open it for him.”

***

Dr. André Clairvoix’s office was a stone’s throw from the hospital. His receptionist was sitting behind an enclosure, who was busy retrieving a file from a long row of open filing cabinets to her right.

She was young, not more than 25 and spoke with an accent. She smiled as soon as she saw us. “How may I help you?”

DeGrace started talking to her in French, telling her he had an appointment with Dr. Clairvoix. She asked his name and left to speak to the doctor, who had emerged from one of the examination rooms with one of his patients.

He was in his mid-40s with pale blue eyes that looked as though he hadn’t had enough sleep. He was very focused on everything he did. You could tell by the way he opened his appointment book and scanned the page.

“Your name?”

“DeGrace. Denis DeGrace,” he said in French.

“I don’t see your name here.” Dr. Clairvoix sat down opposite us, next to the scale and a chart showing our body organs. “What is this about?” he said in French.

DeGrace smiled and replied in French: “Madame Pozalski. I am a private detective, and she has asked me to investigate the death of her child. She does not believe he died.”

“I can’t talk to you about a confidential matter like this.”

DeGrace produced an envelope from his pocket and passed it to him. He scanned the single sheet of paper in 30

seconds. “I’ve told the police everything I know. And besides, I have a patient waiting for me.”

“Madame Pozalski believes her child is still alive and wants me to be the devil among the cows, as my good father used to say, to prove her right.”

Dr. Clairvoix sighed and let out a long breath of air. “This will drive me insane. And for what? A crazy woman who can’t face reality. She should be locked up and not bothering the very people who are trying to help her through this.”

He rose and extended his hand to DeGrace. “Sorry. I can’t help you. Enough is enough.”

***

Dr. Carl Williamson was more forthcoming, starting with his reception area that looked more like a living room with copies of old masters on the wall, two sofas and three plush chairs that seemed to swallow you when you first sat down. DeGrace sat on the edge of the other one and made faces as though he were trying out a new character. He was a part-time actor, appearing in plays at Stratford and CBC dramas between his detective assignments.

Dr. Williamson suddenly appeared with a middle-aged woman who left a minute later. In his early 60s and grey hair, he was tall and thin and walked with a slight limp. “I understand you would like to see me,” he said, extending his hand to DeGrace.

“It’s about Madame Pozalski, who came to see you a few days ago.”

“And you are?”

DeGrace told him he had been retained to find her child, whom she believed was missing.

“Does she know you are seeing me?”

DeGrace nodded and produced another envelope from her and handed it to him.

Dr. Williamson continued to smile as he reviewed the letter, folding it carefully before handing the envelope back to DeGrace. “How can I help you?” he said as he led us to his office. “A sad case.”

“She met with us, claiming that her baby had been stolen and said you had suggested she was unstable and would benefit from an extended holiday.”

He nodded throughout DeGrace’s comment. “My assessment was that the death of her child changed her sense of reality. She claimed the dead child that was shown to her was someone else’s child.”

“That’s because there was no birthmark behind the dead infant’s ear,” said DeGrace to make a point.

“Precisely. Our minds sometimes work in strange ways. Madame Pozalski saw what she want to see – and that was the absence of any birthmark. Ergo, in her mind, the dead infant could not be her child.”

He paused to study DeGrace’s face. “She needs time in a new reality – away from all this – to help herself recover. She is a very determined young woman with firm convictions. The stronger the conviction, the longer it will take for her to recover.”

We left a few minutes later. DeGrace thanked him profusely, leaving Williamson smiling and patting him on the arm.

“Well?” I said as we walked to my car.

“Someone with great acting skills.”

It takes one to know one, I thought.

“There was no hesitation in Dr. Williamson’s delivery. Not a single pause.”

You had a feeling that DeGrace was reading a script.

“Where to next?”

He ignored me and kept on rambling. “I believe he told me what he believes. The same for Dr. Clairvoix.” He paused as I started the car and headed out the driveway.

“Yet, something is missing. I can’t quite put my finger on for the moment, but I am inclined to believe what Madame Pozalski’s version – that her child was switched and that she was shown someone else’s child...”

***

DeGrace had hidden himself in the basement, tinkering with his 18th Century clocks. He used it as a way to clear his head and discover what his stomach was whispering to him.

He emerged an hour later to take a call from Mrs. Pozalski. It was six o’clock, and all the 18 clocks he had around the house went off at the same time. It always brought a smile to DeGrace’s face.

“She would like us to call on her tomorrow afternoon and not be surprised at what we see.”

***

The Pozalskis lived in a two-storey brick house in a suburban neighbourhood about a half-hour away. All the trees were in leaf on the street, and the first dandelions had popped up. I turned into their driveway.

Feliks Pozelski opened the door a crack. “Yes?”

“We’re here to see Mrs. Pozalski,” I said.

“She called and asked us to come and see her this afternoon,” said DeGrace.

Pozalski, a big-boned man with dark wavy hair and hypnotic blue eyes, opened the door a bit wider. “I know you,” he said, looking at DeGrace. You’re an actor, aren’t you? Why would she want to see you?”

“Madame Pozalski has not told you?”

Felix Pozalski shook his head, opening the door all the way. “Come in, and I’ll call her. She’s not been well and is taking a nap.”

He was a handsome man with charm and warmth in his voice. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he said, mounting the stairs, two at a time, to their upstairs bedroom, returning about three or four minutes later with his wife. Their living room was large, with three door-to-ceiling windows and a Persian rug on the floor. They sat down on a long navy sofa.

“These gentlemen say you invited them here today.”

Jolanka appeared dazed and shook her shoulder-length hair. Her dark eyes had a soft, dreamy look, as though she had been drugged. She tried to smile. “If you say I called, you, then I must have. Did I say what for?

“You neglected to do so, Madame, I regret to say.” DeGrace looked at her husband throughout it all.

“She’s had a bad time of it. She lost our son, through no fault of her own, and can’t seem to cope with it,” he said, leading us to the door. “I hope she does not need to be hospitalized.” An awkward pause, “What do you guys do that would make her call you?”

“Marketing,” I said quickly, handing him one of my cards.

Pozalski just shook his head and closed the door. ***

Phil Hilkers was waiting for us at the Consulate and had already grabbed DeGrace’s favourite table. “What’s it this time, DeGrace?” he said as our waiter arrived with one of DeGrace’s special coffees.

“Join me, Phillip. You’re off duty now.”

“It must be something special for you to start the conversation this way.” Hilkers, a veteran detective and a long-time friend of DeGrace, nodded to the waiter.

“It is. I need your help with a case I’m working on. I need the names and addresses of all the women who gave birth on May 12th.”

“Is this about the Pozalski woman? I should have

guessed she’d contact you.”

DeGrace looked sheepish and took a sip of his coffee.

“Don’t tell you believe her story. She was on our doorstep, claiming her son had been stolen – with no evidence of any kind to back up her story. We did investigate but gave up. It was a road to nowhere.”

The waiter arrived with Hilkers’ coffee. He breathed in the aroma of the Cognac and took a big mouthful. “What do you want?”

“Just their names and their addresses for now.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“I need them tomorrow morning, Phillip.”

“What do you see in all this that the rest of us aren’t?”

“Satan.” ***

Rebecca Fulford wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and called out to another tot to stop banging a pot in the kitchen. “I’m sorry. I can’t seem to keep up with a super active two-year-old. My mother-in-law is coming tomorrow. The house is still a big mess, and I don’t know what to do.”

“We won’t take much of your time,” Mrs. Fulford. “We’d like to see your new baby for a couple of minutes, and we’re gone.”

“It’s about that Pozalski woman, whose baby died, isn’t it? There was a story on it on TV two weeks ago.” She raised her newborn from the cradle and held it close.

“No one is going to take your baby from you, Mrs. Fulford. We just need to see the child’s face.”

***

Mildred Harper was a different story. She showed her baby to us with great pride. “My youngest,” she said

with a note of pride in her voice. “It’s feeding time, and you have to forgive me if I ask you to come back an hour from now.

“No problem, Mrs. Harper.”

“It’s about the lady whose baby died before she had a chance to bring it home. I heard about it shortly after I came home with Jeffery in my arms. The poor woman. I hope she finds her baby. If there is any way, I can help –“

DeGrace shook his head. “We came to ask you if you felt your baby was safe in the hospital nursery.

***

Bossy Babcock, a beautiful blonde with large blue eyes, looked at her son. “Don’t you think he’s the most beautiful baby you’ve ever seen? Look at those eyes. Have you ever seen anything more beautiful,” she added to drive the point home. She had a throaty voice that men seemed to like and a coy way of talking.

DeGrace spotted a man’s necktie, still knitted, hanging from the kitchen chair. “Is Mr. Babcock at home?”

“Sorry to disillusion you, Mr. – “Sorry, I just can’t remember your name. I’m a single mother. The tie belongs to me.”

DeGrace was getting restless. He was clear about what he was looking for, but it was also apparent he still wanted to talk to her. Something she said must have triggered something in his head.

***

Agnes Ingersoll, who lived in a mansion in one of the city's wealthiest areas, was planting flowers around the perimeter of the pool and singing to herself. She was in her late 30s, and she and her husband were about ready to give up having a baby. Agnes, a tall, thin woman, with streaks of grey in her dark brown hair, wore the latest fashions with grace and had a soft, soothing voice that suggested elegance

in everything she did.

“I saw you in Othello last season at Stratford,” She smiled and poured a tea for us. I watched DeGrace, who dislikes tea, from the corner of my eye. “I understand you would like to talk to me about the poor dead infant at the hospital.”

She offered a weak smile. “You haven’t touched your tea. Perhaps you would like a sherry.”

DeGrace shook his head and lifted his teacup. “Thank you for your kindness, Mrs. Ingersoll, the tea will be fine.”

“I gather you want me to Mts. Pozalsi and the fate of her infant. I hope she finds peace. That said, they did mix up the sex of my daughter and had her registered as a boy.”

***

“I hope you didn’t think my behaviour strange when you came to my home.,” said Jolanka, “but I did warn you in advance to be prepared for anything.”

“We already guessed the reason.”

Her dark eyes grew a share darker. “I’m not sure where I stand with my husband. He’s changed towards me since I came back from the hospital. I think the death of his son hit him harder than he lets on.”

DeGrace passed her one of his special coffees and sat back in his chair.

“I think he blames me for it somehow.”

“Peut-être. Perhaps.” DeGrace paused on purpose. “Your husband, I get the feeling he doesn’t support you the way he should.”

“You mean that he thinks I’m crazy. I no longer feel he’s in my corner,” she said, enunciating each word carefully. Then, in a business-like tone: “Have you reached any conclusions?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. But I can’t prove anything at this stage.”

“Just answer me one question. Is my son alive?”

“Yes.”

***

Hilkers was on his third coffee when he decided to ask DeGrace why he was buttering him up. He frequently dropped by to talk about some of the cases he was handling and knew DeGrace as well as I did.

“Another small favour, Phillip. I need you to arrange a meeting of all the people connected with the disappearance of Mrs. Pozleski’s infant.”

“So it’s theft now? What makes you so sure?”

“It’s not a hunch, Phillip. I know for a fact that her baby is still alive, and I know how the theft was carried out. It’s just that I can’t prove anything at this point.”

The front doorbell clanged, and I went down to find Feliks Pozalski with his hand on the buzzer. “I need to talk to DeGrace.”

He followed me upstairs to DeGrace’s office.

“What are you filling my wife’s head with nonsense, giving her hope when there is no hope. I’m the one who has to pick up the pieces when you’re not able to deliver.

“Drink this. And then we’ll talk,” said DeGrace, passing him one of his special coffees. And before you say anything further. Permit me to introduce you to Detective Sergeant Hilkers of the Metropolitan Toronto Police.

Hilkers smiled and nodded before taking another mouthful of coffee.

“Now, Mr. Pozalzki, that you’ve had time to settle down. Yes, I did tell your good wife that I believe your son is still alive.”

“I pray you’re right. Where is he now?”

“Safe.”

“Can we pick him up now?”

“We’re a bit premature, but it will happen.”

“When? Next year? Or the year after that?”

DeGrace didn’t respond.

Pozalski drained his mug and stood. “Sorry to have bothered you.”

No one said anything for a couple of minutes after he left.

”What is it, DeGrace? How can I help?”

“Thank you, Phillip. I would like you to convene a meeting at the hospital for me — the scene of the crime. I will provide you with the names of the individuals to invite. You have the power to invite. I do not.”

***

DeGrace was closeted with someone in his office for the better part of an hour. It turned out to be someone from the coroner’s office who specializes in DNA. He owed DeGrace a big favour and posed as a lab technician from the hospital to check whether their newborn had contracted a dangerous strain, identified in the hospital since they had left with their infant.

“It worked every time. I am sorry to say for the parent I did find one DNA profile that matched Mrs. Pozalski’s,” he said, passing the results to DeGrace, who glanced at it before putting the contents in his safe.

***

Everyone connected with the births turned up a seven p.m. sharp with their infants, as instructed.

“Thank you for coming,” said Hlkers. “You’re here because one of you has an infant who was stolen from his mother at this hospital. One of you will leave without the child they believe is theirs.”

The women were sitting in front of their children. Three of them were crying. Their husbands stood behind them, stone-faced and unsure what to do. The women sud-

denly joined hands with the woman next to them.

“I would like to talk first to Joy Mitchell, head of nurses at the maternity floor, and one of her nurses, Sara Clawson. It was Sara who was the key to how the crime was committed. Tell me if I am wrong, Sara,” said DeGrace, who had a photographic mind,” but you told me that the door to the nursery locks automatically after someone enters and leaves. Do you recall what I asked you?

“You asked if there was any occasion where you unlocked the door for a father while another father was in the room. And there was.”

“Is that person here tonight? If so, kindly write his name down on this slip of paper and hand it to me.”

Sara scanned the faces for about two minutes. “It’s not easy, Mr. DeGrace. I see so many fathers in the run of a week.”

“Then let us try another approach, Sara. Look at each father and then look at their wives. Perhaps that will help you make the connection.

“I think it is this man.” Her arm was shaking as she pointed to the husband of Rebecca Fulford.

“What kind of cheap trick is this? I wasn’t even in the city most of the time. Rebecca was in the hospital. I’ve had enough,” he said, tapping his wife on the shoulder. “It’s time we left this circus.”

His wife refused to budge. “I want to see who stole this woman’s baby.”

He straightened and stood behind her in silence.

“That brings us to Mr. Pozalski, whose son was taken from him in the worst possible way, leaving him and his wife shattered and in the depths of despair.”

One of the infants started to cry, setting off the others as their mothers held them close.

“Mr. Pozalski would have us believe he is a grieving parent, yet someone who described a dead child as Sa-

tan’s Child. He is anything but. And no child should ever be called Satan’s Child. Ironically, it’s what set me on my path to find the truth.”

He turned to Bozsi. “Would you not agree, Miss Babcock?”

Bozsi sat fatherless, three seats from Jolanka.

“Who is the father of your child, Bozsi?”

She started to cry. “You know who. So why are you asking?” She held her baby closer and kissed his forehead. “Well, Mr. Pozalski?”

“Well, what?” I admit I’m the father of her baby. That still doesn’t change the fact that someone else has my son. What are you going to do about that?”

“Why don’t you tell us, Mr. Pozalski.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

DeGrace turned to Sara Clawson. “I think it’s time.” Sara broke into tears. DeGrace waited until she finished sobbing. Joy put her arms around her and whispered in her ear.

“It was just Mr. Pozalski. Mr. Ingersoll was involved, too. His daughter had a weak heart at birth and died after two days of heart failure. They convinced me that it would be best for all if we switched babies. Mrs. Ingersoll’s child for Mrs. Pozalski’s child.” She looked at Jolanka and broke out into tears again.

“Did they offer you any money?”

“Thirty-thousand dollars.” She paused. “I hated what I did and ripped up Mr. Ingersoll’s cheque in front of them. I told them I was going to tell Mrs. Pozalski her child was still alive and who had her baby.”

“What stopped you, Sara?” DeGrace sounded like a kind grandfather.

“They told me that if I told Mrs. Pozalski the truth, I would end up in prison.”

“That’s a damn lie,” said Pozalski, starting for the

door, where he was stopped by one of the officers Hilkers brought with him. “It’s a frame-up. I learned only of this now. I didn’t know Ingersoll had arranged with her to steal my son.”

“No.” The shout came from Bozsi. “Enough. I’ve had enough of your lies. It was part of your plan to get rid of your wife and be with me. Right now, I wouldn’t allow you a light-year from me.”

“You forget that your son is also my son and that I’ll make your life a living hell until I get him.”

Bozsi started crying. Jolanka left her seat to comfort her.

“I wouldn’t worry about that too much, Miss Babcock,” said Hilkers. “Where he’ll be going, he won’t be in a position to bother you or anyone else for a long time.”

DeGrace turned to the Ingersolls. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Ingersoll, but the time has come for you to give your son to Mrs. Pozalski.”

Jolanka stood in front of her. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Ingersoll,” she said as she took the baby and sat down next to Bozsi.

“I’m sorry, too, Agnes,” said her husband.

“I’m sorry, too, Hugh, and not just about the child. Money is not always the answer.”

Hikers and one of the officers stood beside him. You could see the fear in his eyes that suddenly looked very tired. “What will happen to me?”

“That’s up to the courts.”

“I did it for you, Agnes.”

Jolanka rose and walked towards us. She pulled back the blanket. “It’s time you saw what you were fighting for.” She paused to kiss her son’s forehead. “I’m going to name him after you. What’s your name?”

DeGrace looked embarrassed. “Denis.”

“You were the only one who believed in me. Why?”

“Your strength and belief in yourself.”

“What about Feliks?” she said, watching him being led away in handcuffs by another policeman.

The Last Class Story suggested by Gord McKay

Video by Gord McKay

The first call came shortly after 11 a.m. It was Gord McKay. “They’re going to tear down the old school.”

“Beaconsfield?”

I could almost see him roll his eyes. “They say it’s a death trap and that the insurance company won’t cover it any longer.”

It was the school my father and my sisters had attended. An essential part of our lives we always took for granted. Tearing it down would leave a gaping hole in the lives of all of us who went there.

“Are you still there?”

“I was thinking. When did you hear about it?”

“It was on Talk of the Town. We’ve got to do something.”

Twelve minutes later, it was Ed Tracy. “Let’s get a few of us together and see what we can do. Billy Wood and Clair Cameron are setting up a meeting to see how we can stop this.”

“Where?”

“Phinney’s restaurant. 7 o’clock. Don’t be late.”

Phinney’s restaurant was attached to their grocery store, just up from the Assumption Church. It had become a hangout for a lot of us from Beaconsfield since the early ‘40s. It was packed, even though it wasn’t 7 o’clock. Cigarette smoke hung over the booths and the wrap-around counter in a bluish haze. The two waitresses, busy making milkshakes, could barely make themselves heard amid the rising buzz of excited voices.

Ed Tracy, a lieutenant commander with the RCN and on leave for the month, was sitting with Buddy Stilwell, Clair (Tarpot) Cameron, and Tarpot’s older brother, George. Gord McKay was the first to spot me and edged his way to me.

“There’s a few more coming,” he shouted in my ear. “But I think we should start now.” He led me to the last booth, close to the jukebox. “We’ve hired a lawyer. We want you to meet him.”

Stan Collins, who used to live just up the street, made room for me and introduced Cam Fairweather, a young lawyer who had moved into one of the two-story houses on Summer Street.

“Judging from the noise level in here, I’d say you haven’t a hope in hell of reversing the school board’s decision,” he said in a deep, strong baritone voice that would serve him well in two high-profile murder cases a few years later.

“We should have seen this coming,” I said.

“We all should have,” said Tommy Connors, who had followed us unnoticed to the booth. “When do we plan to start?”

“Just as soon as everyone stops talking,” said Gord McKay. Tommy was shorter than the rest of us and liked by everyone in the room. Gord took him to each of the tables, where Tommy, with one of his disarming smiles, told ev-

eryone it was time to start.

Five minutes later, Ed Tracy, who had made his way to our booth, stood in front of the old multi-coloured jukebox and introduced Cam Fairweather. Cam had just finished law school and looked it in a tight-fitting brown suit. But he had a strong booming voice then that brought the room to a standstill. His dark brown curly hair was messed up a bit, and h had compelling dark brown eyes that seemed to see through you.

“What about an injunction?” said Dick Lawson shortly after Fairweather had sat down.

“You can never tell with judges, but I guess that with all the experts calling your school a death trap and with the insurance companies no longer prepared to insure it, I have to tell you that we don’t stand much of a chance.”

Billy Wood stood up and waited for the shuffling and whispers that followed Fairweather’s comments to ebb away. “Is there any way we could hire our own team of experts to check out the school and have them make their report?”

I hadn’t seen Billy in a few years and marvelled how authoritative his voice had become. It was clear it was the obvious next step as soon as he said it.

Cam Fairweather, still standing, cocked his head. “That’s a possibility. Give me a day or two, and I’ll see what we can do.”

“Who’s behind all this?” said Ed Tracy.

“The school board chairman,” Cam shot back. “His name is Alistair Goulding. He seems to hate the school.”

“What do we know about him?”

“I’m already ahead of you,” said Cam. “The answer is Not much. He graduated from law school in Toronto and practised corporate law on Bay Street. Made a pile of money and decided to retire in New Brunswick. About our age, I’d say. Other than that, no one seems to know much about

him. In fact, no one even wants to know anything about him.” He paused for a few seconds. “I gather he likes it that way.”

“Have you talked to the school board yet?” said Billy Wood.

“Yes. But they’ve made their decision and are not prepared to change it.”

***

A small group of us met with Cam at his office on Summer Street, a short distance from the school, a couple of days later. The parlour, located in the front of the house with two large windows overlooking the street, had been converted into his office. He sat on the edge of his desk, positioned close to the sidewall covered in wallpaper of red and green and yellow flowers dancing in unending circles.

“I’ve got good news and bad news. The board has granted the right to retain our experts and to have them prepare a report before any work starts on the demolition.”

“And the bad news?” said Bobby Allan.

Fairweather paused for a few seconds. He looked taller than he did at the restaurant somehow. “I’ve hired our own inspector. He’s gone through the school. He disagrees that it is a death trap but says it would cost more to bring it up to standard than it would be to tear it down and build a new one.”

“Where does that leave us?” Bobby Allan and his sister, Pat. “Before we get into that, let me ask you all that you would settle for – if we can’t stop the demolition of the school. I would like you all to think about that before we decide what to do.” Then, as an afterthought, “but don’t take too long.”

***

For the next two days, we got on the phone and called everyone we could think of. It was Georgie Calvin

who came up with a suggestion that seemed to resonate with everyone.

“Let’s have one last class in the old building and bring in a photographer to take pictures of all the rooms, including the auditorium.”

“What about some souvenirs from the old school for something tangible to remember it by?” said Patsy Jones when Billy Wood told her about Georgie Calvin’s idea. “It would be great if we could have Otty Norwood, our old principal, come and be our teacher for our last class.”

“Great idea,” said Ed. He didn’t need to ask the rest of us. He could read the answer on our faces. “Anyone know where he is?”

Peter Pitt, who turned up for the meeting, joined in: “I’ve tried to track him down – but without success. I’d like to take another stab at it.”

“Then you’ve got the job.”

On the third day, when we met with Cam Fairweather again, everyone seemed to come to terms with it.

“What about it, Cam?” asked Pete Alderman, who had joined the group with T-Bone Perkins. They were my older sister's age and came with a take-charge attitude. “I’ll take it to the board. They’re meeting tomorrow night, and we’ll see what they say. I think it’s a fair compromise.” He paused to see how we were taking it. “I have a suggestion: Why don’t we pack the board meeting. The crowd that turned out the other night at Phinney’s would be perfect. It might put the board in a more reasonable frame of mind.”

Alastair Goulding was decked out in a navy blue suit with a powder blue shirt and a red and dark blue-striped tie. He sat in the middle of a long oak table and was talking to the other board members in whispers before starting the meeting. His slate grey eyes had a hard look that matched his thin stern face. There was a cold, almost menacing man-

ner in his movements that made you feel uncomfortable.

I was later to learn that his wife had died a few months earlier and that it had darkened his outlook on just about everything.

We were the last item on the agenda, and you could tell that Goulding and the other board members were anxious to finish everything as quickly as possible and go home.

“Mr. Fairweather,” said Goulding in a starched voice. “I understand you would like to offer a request to the board regarding the old school.”

Cam rose from his chair in the front row and approached the table where the board sat at the front of the room. His voice never wavered for a second as he began: “I represent a group of ratepayers, all who attended Beaconsfield School, and who –”

“Let me stop you right there, Mr. Fairweather. The school’s a death trap and has to be torn down. End of story.” He sniffed the air like someone who had just smelled something disagreeable.

“With respect, Mr. Goulding, we are aware of that –although we do not agree it is a death trap.” He paused to underline what he was about to say next. “This is not why we are here.”

“Then out with it,” said Goulding, looking at his pocket watch.

“These ratepayers – and many more others who are not here tonight – would like to tour the school for one last time, take photographs of the school rooms and hold one last class in their old Grade 8 classroom. To take away something tangible of their days there. We respectfully request that you permit them to do so.”

You had to hand it to Cam. His voice never wavered for a second, and he ended everything with a broad smile.

Goulding and his other board members huddled around the table for a minute or two. It didn’t take them

long to make up their minds.

“Much as we would like to accommodate your request,” said Goulding, looking past Cam and squarely at us, “we feel it would pose an enormous risk to your lives and an unreasonable burden on the taxpayers, whom we represent, should something go wrong. Now,” he added, turning to the rest of the board, “if there is no other business, I move to adjourn this meeting. All those in favour…”

Cam was on his feet again.

“What now, Mr. Fairweather?”

“We have a report from our expert who says the school is not the death trap you say it is. In fact –“

“I have read your report, and our experts tell us it lacks substance and has failed to deal with certain issues dealing with the safety of anyone in the building.”

***

“I’m not going to take this lying down,” said Perley Collins. He and Zeke Rackley were waiting for us at the door as we entered Phinney’s Restaurant, where we adjourned after the school board meeting. We were feeling a little foolish and angry at the same time. Perley expressed what the rest of us were thinking.

“What if we just broke in, took some pictures and met for one last time in the Grade 8 classroom?” I’m not sure who made the suggestion, but it was a winner. You could see it in the eyes and faces around me.

“I have to warn you, as your legal counsel, that what you’re suggesting is criminal trespass and could have bad consequences for all concerned.” Then, after a brief pause: “Most courts would likely reduce the charge to trespass – if no damage is done or no one is injured.”

Gord McKay, who was there with his wife, Jane, put a quarter in the jukebox. It was a soft piece of music, filling the room with soothing sounds and carrying the ten-

sion away with it. It was one of his brother’s favourites. Neil (Thumper) McKay came in a few minutes later and always had a ready smile for everyone.

“For the record,” said Dick Lawson, looking official in his Lancaster Police uniform. “I’m going to leave now so that I won’t know what you guys are planning.”

“I think we all should go home and give it a lot of thought,” said Ed Tracy, who drained his coffee with one quick gulp. ***

Everything went into hibernation for the next day or two. No one called me, and I didn’t call anyone. I decided the school board had won, and we just had to accept it and get on with our lives.

The word had somehow got around to the girls in our class. I ran into my cousin, Jean Stotter, who lived next door to the school and next to my aunt, Susie Drummond, who ran a small candy store. “I hear you guys are planning something like a last class at the school. If you do, count me in.”

That somehow got the ball rolling. Before the afternoon was out, I had heard from four others, Marion Trecartin, Sandra Taylor, Kay Melvin, Virgina Wallace, Shirley and Eleanor Jarvis and Dawn Perry. They were prepared to risk being charged, too.

I wasn’t the only one. So were Billy Wood, Junior Jarvis, Ed Tracy, Buddy Stilwell and Kaye Don Whipple. Kaye Don had missed our meeting with the board.

“I think it may be better,” said Gord McKay, “if we met at the rink shack. Who knows what ears may be listening in on us at Phinney’s.”

“Great idea,” said Kaye Don, whose father operated the rink. “Leave that in my hands.”

Two days later, 17 people turned up at the shack to talk about the last class and how to make it happen.

The odds were enormous, although we dismissed them at the time. Being a military man, Ed Tracy suggested that whatever we decided, it stood a greater chance of succeeding if it were carried out and planned as a military exercise.

“Is it patrolled by security guards? If so, how many? And if we slip by them, how do we unlock the doors and find our way in?” He paused to let it sink in. “One other thing. Whatever we do will have to take place during the day. At night, putting on the lights in the Grade 8 classroom and elsewhere in the building would warn everyone in the neighbourhood that someone was in the school.”

Then, turning to Peter Pitt: “What’s the word about Otty.”

“It took about 50 calls, but I did track him down,” said Peter in a deep voice. “He loves the idea and plans to come. All he needs now is a word from us.”

We left an hour later, each of us with an assigned task. They delegated me to find a way to unlock the door to the boy’s entrance on the graveyard side. I thought about it all weekend without much success. I was out shopping for groceries when I ran into Mrs. Long, who told me her husband was back home from the hospital and invited me to see him.

That’s when one of those rare epiphanies popped into my head. I had known Mr. Long before I went to school and remembered when he became janitor. If anyone knew how to get into the school, it had to be Mr. Long.

When I saw him the next day in his upstairs bedroom, he was propped himself up by two pillows, his cheeks unshaved with gray stubble, and his light blue eyes, faded

and listless. He tried to raise himself but fell back, breathing hard for a few seconds.

“Don’t try to get up.” I rearranged his pillows and drew up a chair next to him. We talked about when I helped him install the storm windows at the school during my high school years and then about the school board’s refusal to allow us to hold our last class at the school.

Mr. Long shook his head. “The first time that pompous, big-bellied ass came to the school, he took one look at me and the next day, they told me I no longer had a job. There’s something wrong about that man. I’m not saying that because he wanted to get rid of me, but there is something not quite right about him.”

He motioned me closer and whispered. “There’s a plug of chewing tobacco in my trousers. Can you get it for me – but for God's sake, don’t tell my wife.”

His trousers hung by his suspenders over the darkstained varnished kitchen chair near an ornately carved bureau. Knotted ties hung on either side of the bureau’s swing mirror.

He took a big chew of the plug and settled back with a contented look on his face. “I’ll be damned if this thing’s going to stop me.” He paused to point to an empty plug tobacco can near the door. “What do you guys plan to do?”

“I was sort of hoping you might be able to tell us. Right now, we need to find a way to get into the school. All the doors are locked. We’re sort of stumped.”

He spit some tobacco juice into the can I produced for him from under his bed and settled back again. “There might just be a way.”

I held my breath.

“I had a duplicate key made the day he came to the school. I had a feeling it might come in handy if I was let go and needed to come back to get a few things I might have left behind.”

“Where is that key now?”

“Hanging on a nail just above the door in the back porch. It’s for the boy’s entrance.”

***

That night, Billy Wood, who had a gift for mechanical things, and I approached the boy’s entrance next to the graveyard. Getting there unnoticed turned out to be the easiest part of the exercise. There was no moon that night, and we had to feel our way around the handle to find where to insert the key. It took a few minutes before we succeeded.

Billy tried to turn the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. He pushed the key in as far as it would go and held his breath. Still nothing.

At that moment, we heard footsteps approaching and crouched in the shadows with our backs against the cold concrete sidewall.

There was a sudden movement in the bushes in the graveyard as the guard played his flashlight in the direction of the noise. A cat with burning red eyes scampered away into the darkness.

The guard shone his flashlight in our direction. We held our breaths until he turned and walked back to the front of the building.

***

“You may recall,” said Mr. Long, “I said might.” He looked 100% today and was sitting in a floral-covered comfortable chair next to his bed.

“Maybe we didn’t do it right.”

He shook his head. It’s that dang Goulding again. He’s had the locks changed.”

“Is there anything else we can do?”

“Maybe.” I had forgotten that maybe and might were big favourites in his vocabulary. I waited.

“He probably got it done at Harry Watson’s. Harry runs a locksmith shop on Duke Street, just down the hill, a ways from Chittick’s shoe repair shop. See Harry. Tell him I sent you. Tell him I need something I left behind in the boiler room.”

I took the shortcut behind the rink shack and made my way through the woods and down the pathway that ended at Chittick’s shoe repair directly across the street. I took a shortcut through Peterson’s yard and arrived at the locksmith’s shop, located in a long, narrow white building, a good stone’s throw from the top of the hill.

“For the love of God, don’t tell anyone where you got this,” he said, passing a bright, copper-coloured key he had duplicated for me when I explained that Mr. Long needed to get something he left in the boiler room. We both knew what it was without a word said.

“Tell that damned fool to come and see me when he’s up to it.”

***

Cam Fairweather, Ed Tracy, Tarpot, Billy Wood, Buddy Stilwell, Stan Collins and Junior Jarvis were waiting for us at the rink shack the next morning. “Billy tells us you were able to unlock the entrance and get inside last night,” said Ed. “How were you able to come by the key?”

“I can’t say.” I felt my cheeks burn. “I’d like to leave it at that.”

“It’s just that I don’t want it to come back and bite us in the rear when we’re least expecting it. But no matter.”

Then, turning to Tarpot and Buddy Stilwell, “what can you tell us?”

Tarpot cleared his throat. “Buddy took the front of the building, and I took the rear. They’ve got two commissioners on watch – one stationed at each of the two main entrances. Unless they hear anything, they pretty well spend their time on the front steps. The guards are changed at 8 in

the morning and again at eight at night.”

“Best time to enter?” Ed was in his element now.

“Probably noon,” said Kaye Don Whipple, who had joined us in the interval. “That’s when they eat, usually together, for an hour or so.”

“What about the back of the building?”

“They take turns every 30 minutes making a round of the entire building. Not so much at night. I know one of the guards, who was bragging to me what a great job he had,” said Kaye Don.

Ed Tracy ran his hand over his light brown wavy hair. “One thing more. A lot of people already know about this. Each of us could face trespass charges if someone lets this out of the bag. I felt that Goulding had a pretty good idea of what we would ask him before we met with him. How can we make sure that no one will blab and put us all in harm’s way?”

Cam Fairweather added his warning and sat back in silence.

No one volunteered a suggestion other than making sure everyone contacted knew what was at stake for them and us.

“Before we break up,” said Ed, “what do we know about this guy? Where does he come from? I’ve never heard of him before.”

“I did some digging,” said Cam. “His family lived here for a few weeks before his father’s company transferred him back to Ontario. That was quite a while ago, I understand.”

***

Our last meeting before the big day raised new, unexpected roadblocks that seemed to come out of nowhere. It had turned warm early that May and the rink shack felt close and uncomfortable, with a lingering musty smell that clung to your clothes. The meeting had already started by

the time I arrived. Ed Tracy, who reviewed the final steps we needed to take before setting the last date, acknowledged me with a nod.

“Anything else?” he said, looking around the room.

“Something serious, I’m afraid.” Expectant faces turned to me. “I had a call a few minutes ago from Cal Jennings from The Times-Globe. He wanted details about the last class.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Not much. Other than to ask how Cal Jennings knew about it and to ask him to sit on it for the time being.” ***

“Someone blabbed,” he said, looking around the room. “And it also means that Goulding also probably knows. What do you suggest?”

“I think we should invite Cal to send a reporter to the event. If Goulding decides to crash our party and have us all arrested, he’ll have to arrest the reporter, too.”

Billy Wood was the first to laugh, a great, deep, hearty laugh that set the rest of us laughing, too.

“I’m not surprised,” said Ed. “It seems Don Goodwin, who’s now an inspector with the RCMP out West, has even heard about it. He called me last night to wish us good luck and to keep him posted. Don says he can’t make it because he’s tied up, but I think he’s a bit uneasy about facing Otty.”

He paused to smile. “He told me a great story about him and Otty, who asked us to clean the windows in the school. Of course, we would be paid, but the money would go to buy new sweaters for the school’s hockey team.

“It seems Don was late for the meeting and only heard that we were going to get paid for every window we cleaned.”

“I remember that,” said Roy Tippett, who came with his sister, Ruth. “You remember, Ed. We worked as a team.”

Ed smiled again.

“Getting back to Don. He was one of the first to volunteer. After he did the job, he went to collect his money and was told by Otty that all the money was going to buy sweaters for the hockey team.

“But Don, being one of the most resourceful guys in the class, wasn’t going to take this lying down and waited for an opportunity to let Otty know how he felt.”

The room suddenly went silent. Kaye Don lit a cigarette and sat back against the wall.

“A week or so later, Otty came to him and said: I understand you have an uncle with a horse and wagon. The school needs some topsoil for a new lawn in front of the school. Would you ask him to help us out?

“Don’s uncle, Albert Parker, delivered the soil as requested, and the lawn was raked and seeded. But Don was still seething over the loss of the money from his window-cleaning adventure and went to Susie Drummond’s store to buy a packet of turnip seeds. That night he went with a rake and planted the turnip seeds all over the lawn.”

Everyone started laughing at the same time, including Earle Smith, who had slipped in unnoticed. I was wondering if he would show up. I had popped by his house the day before and talked to him about it.

Ed held up his hand. “Wait. It gets better. A couple of weeks later, Mr. Long walked in front of the lawn and scratched his head, remarking to Don that the topsoil his uncle had delivered wasn’t very good, and pointed to the weeds sprouting up all over the lawn.

“What’s funny about it is that Don has no love for turnips. Today, he can’t even abide them on his plate.”

Everyone was laughing, except Georgie Calvin. “Did you know,” he began in a quiet voice, “that Goulding

now has a guard at every door to the school?” Georgie’s house was directly behind the school, and he has a unique view of the entrances on either side.

“When did this happen?” said Kaye Don with a devilish look in his eye.

“Not sure. Just noticed it this morning.”

“What do we do now?” said Tarpot.

“Not sure, Let me think about it,” said Ed. ***

We met the next day at the rink shack again. Kaye Don welcomed each of us with a beer. A couple of the girls from our class – Joyce McEachern, Lorna Stilwell, Marion Robertson, May Brown, Lois Oliver, Kay Melvin, my sister, Norma and Laurel Cameron – joined us for what was to be our last session.

“What about it, Ed?” asked Stan Fortune. “It looks like Goulding has boxed us in before we could do anything.”

“Maybe,” said Ed, with a glint in his eye. “I was thinking about something Gord McKay noted a while back – that we needed a distraction of some kind that would draw the guards away from their posts.

“I think I found it. Actually, the suggestion came from a friend at the Legion. He plays in a marching band put together by a group of lads from the Second World War. He suggests holding a parade to celebrate Victoria Day that would start from Tilton’s Corner and make its way along Lancaster Avenue, take the fork that leads up Whipple Street, past the school before turning back at Susie Drummond’s store to the Tower for a special ceremony.”

No one said a word for almost a minute.

“That’s going to draw quite a crowd,” said May in a quiet voice.

“You know Goulding’s going to hear about this,” said Junior Jarvis, “and be there to block us every step of

the way.”

“That’s part two of our plan,” said Ed, with a voice that hinted a touch of cleverness. “The lads in the band are inviting him to lead the band and have him speak at the ceremony at the tower. That should keep him busy if he has any idea of crashing our get-together. And I agree with you. He probably will show up.”

“So it’s Victoria Day then,” said Stan Fortune.

“Keep it under your hat,” said Tarpot. Everyone laughed.

“One thing more before we break up,” said Ed. “We need to make sure everyone knows about the possibility of being charged with trespass, including Mr. Norwood.”

***

“We’ll see about that,” he said in his old familiar principal’s voice when Peter Pitt called him. The last class seemed to resonate with him, too, and it was easy to see he looked forward to seeing us as much as we did in seeing him.

Ed Tracy and Mac Moore picked him up at the airport and drove him to his summer home in St. Martins, just outside of Saint John. He turned to open the car door when he suddenly asked: “Does anyone have a copy of our old Grade 8 history book.”

“Neither Ed or I do,” said Mac, “but we’ll ask around.”

“One more thing. Ask everyone to bring a notebook with them. And a pen. A ballpoint if you wish.” We all laughed. We had to use fountain pens in his class.

***

Everything went off so smoothly that you’d think we had rehearsed it all for weeks. You could hear the band as soon as it started up Whipple Street and louder still as it

passed Perkins’ house. Harold Porter and Roy Tippett signalled to us when the guards left their post to see the band turn the corner at the graveyard. You could hear the crowd, which had gathered in front of the school, clapping them along the way.

Even the weather co-operated with a dense fog rolling in from Bay Shore. Former students were still arriving in cars they parked all along Summer Street and in driveways along the street.

Small groups seemed to gather and walked to the side entrance in silence, and once inside, moved quickly up the stairs from the basement to the Grade 8 classroom. It became quickly evident in a few minutes that we would not be able to fit everyone there.

Ed emerged from the crowd to put his finger to his lips. “Let’s head upstairs to the auditorium,” he said in a whisper. “And please. No talking, No noise. Don’t assume that the band will drown out all the sounds we make. We’re not that far from the entrance, and if the noise level rises even a bit, we’re bound to be heard.”

Earle Smith, Stan Collins and Buddy Byers dragooned a few of the guys to set up the auditorium classroom style and roll out a portable blackboard on the stage. They delegated me to bring Mr. Norwood, now Dr. Norwood, inside and up the stairs to the auditorium.

He was taken aback by the size of the crowd. “How many people do you think are here?”

“At least 70 or 80,” I said as we waited just outside the auditorium until everything was ready for him.

Dawn Vallis arrived a minute or two later and waved us forward.

The auditorium, looking smaller than it looked when I was a boy, suddenly broke into applause, despite all the warnings about keeping the noise level down.

Mr. Norwood stood straight in front of the lectern

centre stage, his strong presence unchanged. Except for greying at the temples, his hair, still dark and thick, was the same as we remembered. He bowed his head to let the clapping subside. Then, raising his head, he gripped both sides of the podium and started speaking in the same voice we all remembered.

“It’s been 30 years since I walked these halls, but it seems like yesterday,” he began, looking at our upturned faces. “Even the creak on the third stair from the top was like hearing the welcoming voice of an old friend. I’m happy they never got around to repairing it. It’s just one of a trunkful load of memories that I took with me, no matter where I went or did. Those years I spent with you as a teacher and your principal are still part of me, remind me just how lucky I was to be here in those years and have you as my students.

“More than anything else, I am happy for this opportunity to be with you today for one last class and tell you some of the things I wanted to say to you during your final days at Beaconsfield. I would have told you then that you were graduating from one of the best schools in New Brunswick, that your school and its graduates enjoyed a remarkable reputation at Vocational and Saint John High as courteous, hard-working, outstanding students. As you leave here, then as now, you become ambassadors for Beaconsfield and all it stands for.

“It’s an excellent reputation to carry away with you and live up to. And judging by the success you have made of your lives, you have been wonderful ambassadors, still hard-working, still respectful of others.

“I am very proud of being part of your progress, but what you may not know, you have been very much part of the progress in my life as well. I cannot tell you how often I have thought of you all over the years. And always, with a special warmth.

“Beaconsfield will never leave you. It will always be part of you. You will carry that stamp of excellence wherever you go in life, and what you say and do will reflect on the rest of us. Represent us well. Good luck and God bless.”

He paused again as if struggling to find the right words for what he wanted to say next. It was clear that we had left an imprint on him as he had left one on us – a connection that was hard to explain even after six decades.

“We are here today under trying circumstances,” he said in a voice that was new to us. “We are here under the threat of being branded as criminals in the eyes of a local politician.

“Yet none of us is here to defy the law but to say our goodbyes to an old friend that has meant so much to us all, then and now.

“It raises other questions. When is it valid to challenge the arbitrary measures of authority? Your presence here today –“

We all turned at the sound of suddenly raised voices from the doorway at the back of the auditorium as Alistair Goulding pushed aside the people standing in the entranceway and walked to the front of the auditorium with a swagger with two uniformed police officers in tow.

“No one move,” he said in a booming voice that came from somewhere in his chest. “You were all warned, and you chose to ignore it at a cost. All of you will be charged with criminal trespass and find yourselves with a criminal record.”

“You,” said Mr. Norwood, suddenly coming to life. “Who are you?”

Goulding stood, suddenly silent as if struck by the thunder in Otty Norwood’s voice. We all smiled. This was the sound of a voice we had carried in our heads for years, and we knew that somehow everything was going to be all right.

“My name is Alistair Goulding. And who are you?”

Mr. Norwood smiled. He remained silent for almost a minute, and when he spoke, there was no doubt who was really in charge. “I think you know exactly who I am, Mr. Goulding. You may say you have forgotten me, but I haven’t forgotten you. You will sit down. And if you wish to speak, you will raise your hand and address me as, Sir.”

“I will do no such thing,” said Goulding, sniffing the air. “If you think you’d made a fool of me, think again. You’re about to find out who the real fool is.”

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Otty with his old students

Mr. Norwood stepped around the podium and bent down on one knee to speak to Goulding. “We both know you’re not going to do anything,” he said in almost a whisper, “and we both know why. Your father begged me to keep silent, and I promised him I would as long as you behaved yourself. Now, don’t make a bigger fool of yourself than you already have. Leave now and take your escort with you.”

My older sisters, Ruth and Phyllis sitting on either side of Mona and Jamie Dow, leaned forward to catch what was being said wihout success.

Goulding lowered his head and left a few minutes later as quietly as possible, avoiding our eyes and the hoots and clapping that followed him out of the auditorium and down the stairs.

We looked at each other, not quite sure what had happened. We turned to look at Mr. Norwood for some kind of explanation but sensed none would be forthcoming. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, I’d like you to open your notebooks,” he said, turning to write something on the blackboard behind him, “and write a short, one-page essay

about the importance of the Magna Carta in today’s world. A short pause. “One last thing. Every spelling mistake will cost you a mark.”

EDITOR’S NOTE: The events depicted in this story are fictional and did not occur, even though most of the characters in the story are real people. The only fictional characters are the school board chairman, the locksmith and our lawyer.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jim Carr’s adventure with words began as a teacher of Latin grammar for the first five years. He studied Latin for seven years and wrote a Latin book called Lingua Latina – Latin for Beginners. He has a degree in Classics and English.

This was followed by a lengthy career in print journalism on two daily newspapers: a reporter, columnist, and editor. He left to become a communications specialist for several national and international corporations.

He writes a blog about Thai resorts and spas, which is featured on Spa Canada’s website, and has written an ebook about 50+ outstanding resorts and their spas, called Spa Magic, currently under updating.

He also writes fiction, including a wartime romance called There’s Always Tomorrow, a paranormal romance called Yesterdays, The Alchemist, which takes place in 14th Century Italy and The Boook of the Dead, along with four mysteries – Abbot’s Moon, Rogues Retreat, The Door and Gravediggers. Forget-Me-Nots, Femme Fatale and Camp X novels focus on the Second World War.