The Chase: A Novel

by Brenda Joyce

  “I prefer that she goes home as well,” Ian said, making Claire want to kick him.

  “Good. We agree on that, at least.” Elizabeth smiled. “Please, let’s sit down.” She signaled the waiter, who came over. “Coffee, Mr. Marshall?”

  “Thank you.”

  “We need another cup. Shall we order breakfast?”

  “We’ve eaten,” Claire said, and then she blushed. They’d had a continental breakfast in their room—after making love. But the Dukes wouldn’t know that.

  Elizabeth ordered toast for her and William, then turned to Ian. “We wish to help your investigation, Mr. Marshall.”

  Ian glanced at Claire. “Why do you want to help, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Why?” William spoke up. “I’ll tell you why. I’m an Englishman, even if I have chosen to live in the States, and if I can do my patriotic duty, then I shall.”

  Claire and Ian looked at each other again. “What is it that you wish to tell us?” Ian asked.

  “William went to school with Harry Elgin,” Elizabeth said.

  Claire started, then she turned to stare at William in surprise. He nodded, and she turned to look at Ian. Ian also seemed surprised. “The older brother? The one who died in some accident?” she asked.

  William nodded. “Harry and I were great friends at Eton,” he said. “We played football and sculled on the same teams. We dated together. He was a wonderful chap. Good wit, intelligent, at the top of his class. Good manners, too. His death crushed me. I couldn’t get over it.”

  “He died in a hunting accident, I believe,” Ian said.

  William looked at him. “Yes, he did. It happened at his family estate in the north of Wales. A terrible, terrible tragedy,” he said. “And now this. This whole affair with the younger brother. It makes me think.”

  “It makes you think what, William?” she asked.

  He looked at her. “You are chasing Lionel Elgin, believing him to have spied for the Gerries during the war. I always thought he was an odd duck, indeed. The brothers were not close,” he added with some venom. “Of course, that was not unusual, as Harry was the heir. Lionel was most definitely jealous of his brother, especially as one and all adored Harry.”

  “Could you identify Lionel Elgin?” Ian asked.

  William laughed. “I last saw him fifty or sixty years ago. We ran into each other briefly sometime during the beginning of the war. No. I would not be able to recognize him. But what I have been wondering now is if it was really an accident.”

  “If what was an accident?” Claire asked, perplexed.

  William looked at her as if she was rather foolish. “Harry’s death.”

  Claire sat up straighter. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You didn’t know? Lionel shot his brother. That was how Harry died. The two of them were out hunting in the woods, and Lionel shot Harry, supposedly by mistake.”

  Claire felt as if the breath had been knocked out of her. Her ears began to ring. She just knew that the man who killed Eddy Marshall, George Suttill, and David had also murdered his own brother. It was the strongest, most sickening gut feeling she had ever had.

  “I had no idea,” Ian said. “I saw one news clipping, and it was brief. There was no mention of how Harry died.”

  “There wouldn’t be. It was so tragic and, of course, all hushed up,” William said.

  Claire found her voice. “But wouldn’t Lionel have been a boy at the time?”

  William nodded. “Harry was only seventeen. Lionel was several years younger. He might have been twelve or thirteen.”

  “Hunting accidents happen frequently,” Ian said.

  Claire gaped at him. Was he now defending their quarry?

  Elizabeth finally spoke. “I did not meet William until 1940, shortly after the Blitz began. I was only fifteen, and we didn’t begin dating for another year and a half. I never met Lionel, not even once, but I do recall the splash that the death of the Elgin heir made in the dailies at the time.” She shared a glance with William. “But it only lasted for a few days. I am certain Lord Elgin must have quashed the story. I would have done the very same thing.”

  Claire tensed when Ian shifted forward slightly in order to speak. “William, when did you immigrate to the States?”

  “In 1952,” he said without hesitation. “Why do you ask, Marshall?”

  Ian smiled benignly. “It’s important. If you do not mind?”

  William shrugged.

  Claire’s tension increased. She doubted she could move her shoulders if she tried.

  “You lived in Paris for a few years,” Ian remarked.

  “Yes.” William stared at Ian, and if he was surprised that Ian knew a bit about him, he did not reveal it. “I was offered a job with a very prestigious investment banking firm in ’forty-eight, and a part of the job offer was a transfer to their Paris branch. I didn’t mind. Elizabeth had just been accepted at the Sorbonne, so it worked out perfectly.” He smiled and glanced at Claire. “That’s where I met your father. At some small art gallery holding an exhibition for several young, unknown artists.”

  “So you were in Britain until ’forty-eight?” Ian asked.

  William looked right at him. “Yes, I was. Of course, in ’forty-four I was posted to a destroyer in the Mediterranean. I was a colonel in Her Majesty’s Navy. But after the war, I returned to London. Elizabeth and I were married in a very small and private ceremony that summer, and we lived quite happily in a small flat in Chelsea until the move to France.”

  Claire wondered if Ian was itching to take notes. This was the first she had ever heard about William being in the navy during the war, but then, World War II was not their usual topic of conversation. She understood what Ian was doing—he had told her there was a huge gap in the records of William’s life in the mid-forties.

  A silence fell over the group. Claire was absorbed with her own thoughts, and they were frightening. She looked at Ian. He nodded at her, indicating he was ready to leave, much to her relief, but he spoke to the Dukes. “Thank you for your help.”

  “It was no bother, really,” William said, and smiled. “And I do hope we did help.”

  Claire was already standing, aware of Elizabeth’s close regard. The Dukes walked them into the lobby. Claire managed to smile at Elizabeth, who hugged her. She seemed reluctant to release Claire. “We’re leaving tonight, now that we’ve had a chance to see you. You really are coming home, aren’t you?”

  Claire met the other woman’s eyes, surprised that Elizabeth was in doubt. “Yes, I am.”

  “But you are not finished with this, are you, Claire?” Elizabeth asked quietly.

  Claire hesitated; she did not want to lie. “No. David’s killer needs to be caught, Elizabeth.”

  Elizabeth shook her head as if sad, resigned. “You are so much like your mother now, Claire. She would never quit anything, not once she had started it. Please stay safe,” she said softly.

  “I promise,” Claire whispered back, moved and tearful.

  They exchanged another hug, and Claire turned to smile at William. He was regarding them obliquely, and the hairs on her neck seemed to rise when their gazes met. He smiled a little at her, but it seemed sad, and then he moved stiffly away with the use of his cane, not bothering to embrace her or say good-bye.

  Claire was more distressed than previously. She watched the Dukes walk around the corner to the elevator, and then they were out of sight.

  “Ready?” Ian asked her, touching her elbow lightly.

  She nodded, inhaling harshly. A doorman opened the front door, and they stepped out of the hotel.

  “Taxi?” another doorman asked.

  Ian told him they would walk, as the Hilton Tower was only a few blocks past Hyde Park Corner. He took her arm as they started down the block. “Chin up, Red,” he said.

  Claire blinked back a tear and met his gaze.

  “Jury’s not in,” he said softly, pausing in the middle of the block. Pedestrians glanced
at them curiously but walked around them.

  “What do you think?” she asked hoarsely.

  “I think they came over here to help, but what did they tell us? That William went to school with Harry Elgin. That maybe Lionel meant to shoot him and Harry’s death was no accident. The latter has no bearing on anything, Claire, since we already know how ruthless Elgin is. And the former could well be a smoke screen.”

  Claire looked at him. “It’s worse than that. I never, ever mentioned Elgin’s name, not to my father and not to the Dukes.”

  Because of the time change, they arrived at JFK just an hour or so after they had left the U.K. “Eightieth and Third,” Ian directed their taxi driver. He glanced at Claire. “How you doing, kiddo?”

  Claire put on her seat belt carefully as the cab left the terminal. She smiled. “Couldn’t be better, bud.”

  But she was tired. More so mentally than anything else. Had she arrived in Wales only four days ago? A lifetime seemed to have passed since then. And now she was back in New York—with Ian Marshall, who was no longer a stranger but a lover. Had anyone even suggested to her a week ago that she would survive a hit attempt and be having an affair with Ian Marshall—while in the midst of a hunt for a Nazi—she would have accused them of being crazy.

  But maybe she was the crazy one now. Claire looked out of her window. For hours and hours, she had replayed every word and every nuance of their conversation with the Dukes—while trying to avoid thinking about her conversation with Ian the night before. Had William been Harry Elgin’s best friend when they were boys? Or had Harry Elgin been his older brother?

  The latter was a sickening prospect.

  Ian was on his cell phone. As he wasn’t speaking, she guessed that he was picking up messages. She noticed that he had not put on his seat belt. It was a very New York way to tempt fate, as New York cabbies only pretended to know how to drive. Claire had never been able to figure out how they acquired their licenses.

  Claire was tense and torn. Looking at him made her heart want to sing a little, and it made her wonder when they would make love next. Being in his arms was the best thing in the world, as far as she could tell. And thinking about making love was a good distraction. But maybe it was a dangerous distraction. Maybe he had been right; maybe this was a complication that neither one of them needed right now—when they did not know for certain just who Elgin really was.

  She had yet to call her father, who was, according to Elizabeth, sick with worry about her.

  “Good news,” Ian said. “Frances Cookson is back, and we’re confirmed for first thing tomorrow morning.” He smiled at her, but his gaze was searching.

  “Great!” Claire exclaimed, knowing she had to be the worst actress in New York.

  The taxi was now speeding down the Van Wyck Express-way. “Claire, give it up. You’ve been tense since we departed Heathrow.”

  “I am hardly tense. I mean, we get to relax tonight. How’s that? Relaxation. That’s a word we’ve both forgotten, I think. My vote is for Patsy’s Pizza and a video. Something easy. Like The Big Easy.”

  “Claire.” He took her hand. “It’s okay to be frightened.”

  She faced him. “That is easy for you to say.” She grimaced, then said, “It’s William. I know it. He was acting differently around me.”

  “Let’s not jump the gun.”

  “Why not? Why not have him picked up and see if you can match his DNA to another Elgin’s?”

  “There is no other Elgin. Lady Ellen is not an Elgin by birth, and her relatives are all from her side. We could go for a match on Randolph Elgin’s body, but he was never found. I don’t want to bring in the wrong guy so the real Elgin can disappear again—this time forever.” He hesitated, then added, “Besides, I’m not a cop, remember? Technically, I’m supposed to do research and point the authorities in the right direction.”

  Claire flopped back against the sticky seat of the cab. “I need panties.”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t do the best job packing in two minutes flat. I’m short a few things. Do you want a list of unmentionables?”

  “Not really.”

  “Who are you calling now?” He was on his cell phone.

  “My office.”

  Claire tuned out. Guilt tried to get a hold on her. She shoved it away. Yes, she did need a few things, but her shopping could wait. What she really needed was a moment alone—so she could call Jean-Léon.

  She promised herself that she would not violate Ian’s trust. She would not compromise the investigation. But there was no way she was going to speak with her father with Ian listening to their every word.

  Ian hung up. “There’s a few shops in my neighborhood. Mostly boutiques, but—”

  “Why don’t you just drop me off at Bloomingdale’s?”

  He studied her. “Okay. Claire, I hate seeing you upset like this.”

  Claire sighed. “Believe me, it’s not fun.”

  “You could change that stubborn mind of yours and go home.”

  She looked at him. “So now you want to dump me? You guys are all the same, wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.”

  “Be serious.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Things might get worse.”

  Claire flinched. “How much worse?” She stared fearfully into his eyes, but she was seeing Jean-Léon, not Ian.

  “I don’t know. But maybe you should prepare yourself.”

  The cab dropped Claire off in front of Bloomingdale’s, which she hadn’t been to in years. They were in New York City. No one knew where they were. They were safe for a while. She was safe. So why did she feel uneasy splitting up from Ian now? It was absurd.

  She waved briefly and walked to the front doors as the cab pulled away. Then she halted, not going inside. Ian had given her his cell phone, just in case she needed to call him.

  The crowd was amazingly dense as it moved around her. She stood there in front of the store, hesitating. Ian hadn’t told her not to speak with Jean-Léon again, so she did not need to feel so guilty. Still, she knew he would not be happy for her to be in touch with her father, not now. Claire made her decision—she just had to speak with Jean-Léon one more time.

  And she did not like the train of her thoughts. Why had her brain formed the words “one more time” as if it might be the last time?

  Claire remained sick at heart. She quickly dialed Jean-Léon at the art gallery, but the only reply she got was his answering machine. She dialed his cell and it was answered instantly.

  “Claire! Where the hell are you now? And where have you been? Why didn’t you tell me you were shot?” he demanded.

  “How did you know that I was shot?” Claire asked, taken aback. “Dad, it was only a graze.”

  “How do I know? I spoke with Elizabeth this morning before she left London, just after she met with you,” Jean-Léon said flatly. “Why do you think she went over there? I asked her to.”

  Her heart was pounding erratically now. What was this? A conspiracy of Jean-Léon and Elizabeth? “How long have you known the Dukes, Dad?”

  “Why?”

  “I need to know.”

  “We met in the late fifties, around the time I met your mother.”

  Claire froze. He was lying.

  Or had the Dukes been lying?

  “What? I missed that. What did you say?” she asked, her heart pounding.

  “I met them at a party here in San Francisco. I remember very distinctly—I had just begun dating your mother. Claire, what is this about?”

  Was he lying? Claire refused to believe it—the Dukes had to be lying. “Dad, this is important. Did you find that bill of sale for the Courbet?”

  “What?” he exclaimed. “What are you talking about?”

  “I need the bill of sale, Dad. I need you to fax it over to me.”

  “What are you and Marshall up to? And where are you, Claire?”

  Claire wet her lips. “Dad, what would you do if I told you
that Marshall thinks your brother is a lie? What would you say if I told you that he thinks your brother was never a Frenchman? That he thinks your brother is Lionel Elgin—David’s killer?”

  There was only the briefest instant of silence on the other end of the line. Jean-Léon said, mirth in his tone, “The man is certifiable. That would make me a liar, Claire, a liar and an Englishman, and I have never lied to you.”

  She collapsed against the big window of the store, thinking, Dad, what would you say if I told you that he thinks you are Elgin? But she did not dare voice her inner thoughts and her very worst fears. “I know you wouldn’t lie to me, Dad. I just know it.”

  “Are you crying?” he asked, surprised.

  Claire shook her head, unable to speak. “No,” she managed. Then, “I need proof, Dad, proof that Robert’s dead and that you and he were born in St. Michele.”

  “Is this a joke? A bad joke?”

  She couldn’t speak; she could only shake her head.

  “Where are you now? New York? Elizabeth said you were on your way home.”

  “I’m at Heathrow,” Claire lied. She closed her eyes, hating herself.

  “You’re on your way back to San Francisco?”

  Claire made a sound that indicated yes.

  “Good. Are you out of this now, Claire? Really, truly out?”

  “Yes,” Claire said harshly. Then, prodded by some inner devil, she whispered, “No.”

  “What? Did you just say no? Claire, is the line breaking up?”

  “Dad, I need birth certificates for you and Robert. Surely they are stashed away somewhere?”

  “I thought you said you were finished with this sordid affair,” Jean-Léon shouted.

  “I will be—when I get those birth certificates!” Claire cried.

  “Now you listen to me, Claire,” her father said, and he was angry. “I’ve checked Marshall out. Are you aware of the fact that he has a terrible reputation, Claire? You can’t trust him. He’s considered a cowboy—worse, a loose cannon—with his own agenda. I’ve spoken to the Bergman Holocaust Research Center. They said that, at times, he is good at what he does, but at other times, he’s crazy. Reckless. Impulsive. Like now. They told me, Claire, that Elgin died in 1980 in France. Of natural causes. He’s dead, Claire. He’s been dead for over twenty years! Elgin isn’t even on their wanted list! He’s not even alive, Claire.”