The Chase: A Novel

by Brenda Joyce

  “You’re not leaving the hospital,” he said firmly, anchoring her with one arm around her back. “What gets into you at times like these?”

  Claire looked up. “Man, I am light-headed,” she said.

  He pushed her back onto the bed. “Mule-headed is more like it. I’m going to see if the police will wait to speak with you tomorrow. And I am booking you a return to the States.”

  “And I’m not going. You’re stuck with me, big guy. Like it or not.”

  He stared at her, clearly angry, and she stared back, hoping her smile was seductive and alluring. Trading jests with him was hard work, given her weakened condition.

  “Cut it out,” he finally said. “The sweet stuff won’t work. And if you think you’re sexy, forget it. Your head is bandaged and your hospital gown is hardly by Valentino.”

  “Shucks. I’d hoped Val made it just for me.”

  He sighed, shaking his head. “All right. Truce. We’ll finish this when I come back tomorrow.”

  “But won’t you miss my company tonight?”

  “No!” He smiled then. “I’d have to lock up the minibar with you around.”

  “There is no minibar in the B&B.”

  “Do you always have to make the last quip?”

  “Only since you came into my life.” Claire smiled happily at him. Her temples no longer throbbed. The painkillers were definitely working.

  “Has anyone ever told you that you are really stubborn?”

  She smiled slightly. “No. Not ever. Stubbornness has never been one of my major character traits.”

  “Great. I clearly bring out the worst in you.”

  “Or the best,” she said, still smiling.

  He gave her a dark look. “I’m going to see the doctor, tell him what a lousy patient you are, speak with the cops, and then I’ll be back to say good night.”

  “Fine,” Claire said meekly.

  Ian strode from the room.

  Her smile faded as she realized that, filled up with painkillers, concussed, and having just escaped an attempt on her life, she was making jokes and oddly happy. This time there was no denying it. There was also no denying that this was not the time to fall for Ian Marshall.

  Unfortunately, Claire had the feeling that the deed was already done.

  “Claire?” Ian popped his head back in the room, startling her. “It looks like you’re off the hook. The cop in charge has gone home for the night. They’ll take a report from you in the morning.”

  Relief washed over Claire. “Great. That was quick.”

  “Doc’s gone, but I spoke with one of the nurses. She’s going to keep a close eye on you, so stay in bed.”

  Claire saluted him, thinking with real nostalgia about Veuve Clicquot and their small guest room at the Myddleton Arms. “Aye-aye, mon capitaine.”

  He laughed a little, shaking his head. “I’ll be back first thing tomorrow. Good night.”

  “Good night. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

  “I won’t,” Ian promised.

  “Or the Reception Girl,” Claire had to add.

  He rolled his eyes at her and left. Claire wiggled her toes and smiled, until the memories of the horrible and frightening afternoon began to assail her in vivid Technicolor. In spite of her injury, it was a long time before she slept, and when she did, her dreams were filled with the men she loved the most, William, Jean-Léon, and Ian Marshall. Everyone was chasing everyone, and everyone carried guns. Even Robert Ducasse was present.

  Except the dream changed, and one gun became a thumb knife. It was dripping blood.

  And in her dream Claire saw Elgin’s face and realized who he was—who he had been for all of these years—and it was so obvious, it made so much sense, that she just didn’t understand why they hadn’t figured it out sooner.

  Hospital rules required that she use a wheelchair to leave the premises. The next day, Claire sat in the wheelchair, a nurse behind her, on the sidewalk by the hospital’s entrance. Ian was retrieving his car from the parking lot, which faced them.

  Claire was brooding. She was recalling the vague, shadowy images of her dreams, which had left her very disturbed. What was worse, in her dream she had uncovered Elgin’s real identity, but in the light of day, she could not recall it. She had been racking her brain ever since awakening, but to no avail.

  Ian stopped the sedan at the curb and jumped out. Claire thanked the nurse and got out of the wheelchair. The huge bandage on her head had been reduced to a large Band-Aid. She felt fine, for the most part. She attributed any lingering shakiness to stress, not the mild concussion. There was a killer out there and there was no forgetting it now.

  “Okay?” Ian smiled at her, opening the car door.

  “Okay,” Claire said with a return smile, slipping into the passenger side of the front seat.

  Ian said something to the nurse, and a moment later he was seated beside her and they were leaving the hospital grounds.

  “Are you really okay?” he asked, steering onto a busy two-way thoroughfare. “How did it go with the cops?”

  Claire rolled down her window so she could inhale the sweet, salty sea air. “You were right. They’re not big-league guys. But the officer in charge said he’s going to call the San Fran PD and Scotland Yard to coordinate with their investigation.” Claire gave Ian a look. “He was really excited by the case. Delusions of grandeur, I believe.”

  Ian shook his head. “By now, Maclntyre from Scotland Yard has spoken to him and burst his bubble. These village cops will be demoted to foot patrol, if it hasn’t already happened.”

  “Anything new on the case?”

  “Only the attempted homicide yesterday,” Ian said, glancing at her. “When we get to London, you need to go through some mug books with Maclntyre and some guys from Interpol.”

  “Wow,” Claire said, meaning it. “First the SFPD, then the FBI, then Scotland Yard—Special Branch no less—and now Interpol. Do we get to call in the cavalry, too? The CIA kind?”

  “No.”

  “The Secret Service?”

  He ignored her.

  “IRS?”

  “Claire.”

  “What about you?”

  “Me, too, of course. I already gave the best description I could of the assassin,” he said.

  The assassin. Claire shivered a little. “Maybe when this is done, I’ll have found a new calling in life. From glam queen to global PI. Now that’s a midlife crisis if I ever heard of one.”

  “I like what you do,” Ian said quietly.

  Claire twisted to stare at him. “You do?”

  “Yeah. It’s really admirable, Claire.”

  A tiny compliment—and she was ecstatic. “It fits the red toes. If you have red toes, you have to be a fund-raiser.”

  “Got it,” Ian said, smiling.

  Claire fell silent, also smiling. Her head still throbbed from time to time, and when it did, her happiness would vanish, replaced by fear and dread. They were driving alongside the promenade. Gulls wheeled overhead. Tourists strolled on the beach while sunbathers stretched out on towels and children splashed in the gentle surf. There was a long pier jutting out into the water with an arcade. Children, families, and teenagers milled about the length of the pier, playing pinball and eating hot dogs. It seemed almost absurd that yesterday she and Ian had been chased and shot at by an assassin.

  Claire refused to think about the events of the day before. Instead, she wondered what it would be like to be driving through this town with Ian under normal circumstances. Say, as bona fide tourists, or as lovers.

  She looked out of her window again. She had an injury, Ian suspected two of the men she loved most in the world of being Lionel Elgin, yet she was more smitten with him than ever. Damn and double damn. What was to be done?

  “Are you okay?” he asked again, a different inflection to his tone.

  “As okay as I’ll ever be,” she said.

  “You’re a helluva trouper, Claire.” He smiled then. �
�I’ve begun to see why you’re so good at raising money.”

  “Why’s that?”

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

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

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

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

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

  Claire had to smile. “Not until recently.”

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

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

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

  “Can I stop you?”

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

  “What a relief.”

  “Changed my mind. How was last night?”

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

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

  “What is really on your mind?”

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

  “I thought we went over that.”

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

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

  Claire smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “In 1972,” he said shortly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Ian nodded, his gaze on the road.

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

  “How would I know?” He was curt.

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

  “No.”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Okay. ‘Reform’ is my middle name.”

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

  “What’s that?”

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

  He glanced at her.

  “What kind of claim?” Claire asked curiously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  He glanced at her.

  “What?” She sat up straighter.

  “Elizabeth Duke called.”

  Claire stared.

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

  CHAPTER 11

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

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

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

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

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

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

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