by J. S. Cook
There was a flush of sudden recognition as I paged through the documents. Without exception every single bid was from Fayre Construction. In almost every case, for just about every job, Fayre Construction was the only bidder. Despite Octavian’s insistence that his company had placed numerous bids, no other tenders had even been submitted, which meant Octavian had probably been warned off. I mentioned this to Callan, certain he’d already noticed it.
“Oh yeah.” He grinned. “That’s not all, Mr. Stoyles.” He reached across and flipped through the pages until he came to a carbon copy of a typed page: an engineer’s report on the building site. “We allow our contractors to subcontract engineering services as they see fit. It saves us the trouble of having to weed through the local applicants. We figure that a construction company that’s been doing business here in the city will know who the best engineers are, anyway. That was how we hired Mr. Cartwright.”
I flashed on Jonah Octavian’s conversation with me, that day in his car. Ken Cartwright submitted a report to the United States Army, stipulating certain site conditions. The report never reached its destination. “This report is signed by Ken Cartwright.”
“Yeah. Whether he wrote it or not is open to debate.” Callan lit a cigarette. “Mr. Cartwright’s report states outright that this building site is free of any abnormalities that might cause a structural compromise. Do you know what happened when we started to build here, Mr. Stoyles?” I confessed I didn’t. “Some workers began excavating an area on the north side of the site in preparation for the erection of a barracks. Mr. Cartwright’s report stated that the soil in the area lay upon good, solid bedrock—mostly granite, some shale. Recent heavy rains had destabilized the ground, which wasn’t granite or shale or anything like it—I swear to God, Mr. Stoyles, it must be the one place on this whole goddamn island that isn’t solid rock—and the trench collapsed, killing three men.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. “Jesus.”
“Yeah.”
It was more than an engineer’s professional reputation was worth to make a mistake like that, and I said as much to Callan.
“That’s just it, Mr. Stoyles. An engineer wouldn’t make that sort of mistake. Hell, my old grandpa could go up there with nothing but a pointy stick and know there wasn’t no rock underneath that soil!” He closed the folder and slapped it with the palm of his hand. “There’s no way Mr. Cartwright wrote that report. His name’s on it, but you and I both know it’s not hard to forge a signature, especially if it’s one that you’re familiar with—if it’s a signature that you see every day of your life and could probably copy in your sleep. Do you see what I am driving at, Mr. Stoyles?”
There was a long silence in the trailer, save for Thomas’s typewriter. “Julie Fayre.” I knew why Octavian had given me the manila envelope that day, containing Julie Fayre’s employee identification card, among other things.
“Got herself a job working for Ken Cartwright, typing his reports and letters and things.” Callan took a drag off his cigarette and crushed it in the ashtray at his elbow.
“Do you think she altered the report? Submitted one of her own in its place—a report that said there were no problems with the site?”
“That is exactly what I think, Mr. Stoyles—and I believe it is what you think as well.”
It explained a lot: Julie’s odd behavior, the check made out to Chris. “Where’s the original?”
Callan leaned back in his chair. “I am not a policeman, Mr. Stoyles, and I certainly am not a private investigator, no sir, but I am willing to bet a week’s pay that young Miss Fayre still has the original report and has either destroyed it or hidden it somewhere she thinks it will never be found.”
Like the basement of the Heartache Cafe.
I thanked Callan and said my good-byes to him and Private Thomas. He’d given me a lot to think about, and I wanted some time to mull it over. I walked from Fort Pepperrell along the wide street simply called the Boulevard, which ran along the shores of Quidi Vidi Lake. It wasn’t a lake as such—more like a large pond—but it was pretty, with its wide expanse of calm, blue water and the wildflowers and tall reeds that grew along its banks. I was glad I’d had a conversation with Sergeant Callan, but his probing questions about my past had made me very nervous. I’d come here to get away from that part of my life, from the sense of shame I felt at something that wasn’t my fault, which I could neither control nor subdue, but which under military rules and discipline might as well have been painted on my forehead.
Do you understand the term “blue ticket,” Lieutenant Stoyles?
Yes, sir.
Do you understand why you are getting one?
Yes, sir, I do.
Then get your pansy ass out of my office.
Maybe that was why I’d taken up with Judy in the first place, to prove something to myself—to prove I was a man in the commonly accepted sense, that I could perform with a woman, that I could be “normal,” that I would no longer want the kinds of things I’d wanted all my life. But it all went south and I was left with nothing: no career, no job, no way to avail of any of the benefits so readily available to veterans whose discharge—unlike my own—was free of taint or suspicion. I told myself I’d come here to escape the things I felt after Judy died, but that wasn’t the whole truth. I’d come here because it was as far away as I could get from everything.
JULIE FAYRE lived in one of the more venerable parts of the city, an area known simply as Georgestown, home to ponderous Victorian mansions built by the sorts of men whose fortunes rose and fell according to the mating habits of the northern codfish. I found Julie’s place on Maxse Street, a narrow lane populated with wooden-framed houses; she lived in a large white house on the corner of Maxse and Monkstown Road. I didn’t expect to find her at home, so I was surprised when she answered my knock—wearing a housecoat and not much else. “Well, hello, Jack! What brings you here?”
“I have some questions I want to ask you. Mind if I come in?”
“Well, I was just—”
I pushed past her into the house. An open suitcase sat on the sofa in the living room, and two smaller cases were stacked in the hallway near the front door. “You going someplace, Julie?”
“I thought I’d take a little vacation, perhaps go out to Gander for a few days. You know, my family has relatives out that way.” She stroked the neckline of her housecoat, probably hoping to draw my gaze, but I ignored her. “Now that you’re here, why don’t you make yourself comfortable? I can fix us a couple of drinks.” She turned to go into the kitchen, and I followed her.
“Where’s the original report, Julie?”
“What?” She reached into the cupboard and took down a couple of highball glasses. There was some business with the liquor cabinet and more fiddling in the icebox. “What are you talking about, Jack?”
“The engineering report on Fort Pepperrell, the one you typed for Ken Cartwright, when you worked for him. What’d you do with it?”
She passed me my drink and raised her glass to me. “To the most handsome man in town.”
“Stop avoiding the question.” I thought about it for maybe half a second—then took a healthy slug of whiskey, and another. Predictably, it was good quality, and probably very expensive, but I didn’t think a little thing like money would bother someone like Julie. “What’d you do with the report? Did you burn it? Tear it up?” The taste was mellow, smooth, and smoky, with a faintly bitter tang—just the kind of whiskey I’d expect in a place like this. I drank the rest of it off and set the glass down on the countertop. It was a measure of my agitation that I’d downed that drink without even the slightest hesitation—well, they say you’re never really cured, and I guess that was true.
“I haven’t the faintest clue what you’re talking about.” She laid her hand against her hip, and something in the pocket of her robe crackled.
I lunged forward, but she was too quick for me. She darted out of the kitchen and
down the hall, and she was nearly at the front door when I finally caught up with her. I slammed her back against the wall and held her there while I delved into her pocket and came out with a long white envelope, addressed poste restante to a mail bureau in Athens.
“Thought you said you were going to Gander.” There was a pain starting behind my eyes and I suddenly didn’t feel too good. It had been ages since I’d eaten breakfast, and maybe that was it. “This says Greece. Jonah Octavian’s Greek—from Athens.”
“Give me that!” She struggled against me, fighting to get her leg up so she could knee me in the groin, but I used my body’s weight to keep her pressed against the wall.
“Is this why Octavian’s company didn’t bother to put in a tender for the Pepperrell job? Because he figured banging you was worth it?”
“Give me that envelope! You have no business taking it. It’s mine!” She flailed at me with clawed hands, her polished red fingernails just missing my eyes.
I grabbed the front of her robe and slammed her into the wall. “Just what kind of twisted game are you and Octavian playing, Julie? You want to tell me that?” Hell, I was enjoying this, or would be if it weren’t for the headache throbbing at the back of my eyes. I held her hands above her head with one hand and ripped open the envelope with my teeth. “Ken Cartwright’s original report.” It was getting hard to see her. A subtle mist had begun to stain the edges of my vision. “So this seals the deal, huh? You’re sending Cartwright’s report to yourself in Athens. I suppose you know Greece is in Nazi-occupied territory?” I reached around her and put my palms flat against the wall. It was becoming difficult to speak, and I knew without a doubt that something was horribly wrong. “Nazi-occupied territory, Julie, but I can’t say I’m surprised. That’s what this has been about all along, hasn’t it? Where’ve you been hiding this?”
“In the basement of the Heartache Cafe, Jack.” She smiled sweetly and stroked my mouth. “Poor Jack. When’s the last time you took a drink?” She poked her finger into the center of my chest and shoved. It felt like a steel spike being driven into my body. “You stupid, stupid man. You think you can manipulate me?”
“Julie….” There was a roaring, ringing noise in my ears like the sound of a dozen telephones all going off at once. “What did you put in my drink?” The wallpaper had a pattern of intertwining leaves and flowers, and it was sliding past me. I was slipping down the wall, and I couldn’t stop myself from falling. The carpet rushed up to meet me, and the roaring in my ears intensified, shutting out all sound.
The last thing I heard was the sound of a woman’s laughter.
I DIDN’T know too much for a while after that, and it was the feeling of cool water on my face that brought me out of it. I blinked a couple times and saw Sam Halim looking down at me. He was crouched beside me, bathing my face, and I was lying on the floor in Julie Fayre’s Victorian house.
“Sam.” It was hard to talk. My tongue felt swollen to about twenty times its normal size. “How’d you know…?”
“Lie still, Jack. The ambulance is on its way.” I made to get up, but he pushed me back again. “Lie still. You have been poisoned.”
“What? Poison?”
“Yes. Judging by the symptoms, I suspect it may have been quinine. Please, lie still.”
“Sam, I’m so stupid. I knew there was something wrong with her.” I reached out for his hand and held on to it. “You gotta get to Billy Ricketts. Tell him to get Octavian, and don’t let Julie leave town! They’re in it together, Octavian and Julie—”
“Jack, if you do not lie still and stop talking, I am going to have to gag you.” Sam’s brown eyes were full of genuine concern, and it touched me. “Please stay quiet. It is really very important.” I felt the momentary impress of his lips against my cheek. “Do you trust me, Jack?”
“Yeah.”
“If ever you have cause to question me—now, or in the coming days—remember that I am your friend.”
“Okay, Sam. Okay.” I couldn’t keep my eyes open, but it didn’t really matter. Whatever she had given me—quinine or something just as bad—was messing with my eyesight. There was a misty veil over everything, like looking through a steamed-up window, and the headache was making me nauseous.
Sam sat with my head in his lap until the ambulance arrived and they loaded me in.
I woke up in hospital several hours later with a sore throat, certain I’d spent the night throwing my guts up into some kind of tube or funnel while a doctor and two nurses watched.
Chris was sitting in the chair beside my bed, sound asleep with his chin on his chest. From the little I could see, he looked awful: pale and exhausted, with a day’s growth of beard. I didn’t want to wake him, but just then he opened his eyes. He reached out and laid his hand on my arm, his face close to mine. “Jack. Listen, don’t ever pull a stunt like that again, huh?” He stroked my cheek, gently. “I mean, I get that you’ve been feeling bad, but bumping yourself off ain’t the way to go about it.”
“Bumping myself off?” As soon as I said it, I remembered Sam Halim’s face, back there in Julie’s house: If you do not lie still and stop talking, I am going to have to gag you.
“That Egyptian friend of yours, Sam Halim, told me all about it. He called the ambulance for you—don’t you remember?”
“Yeah, the ambulance.” The mist in front of my eyes was as disorienting as hell, and I found it hard to think straight, but for Chris’s sake, I figured I’d better make an effort. “All’s well that ends well, huh?” As far as jokes went—especially about something like this—it was pretty feeble.
“Yeah.” His voice sounded flat, expressionless, like he didn’t really believe me, but there was something else there too. “Jack, there’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just gonna come right out and let you have it.” He clenched his fists, then smoothed his palms against his thighs. “Sam’s gone.”
The declaration rang in the hospital room like the clanging of a bell. For a moment or two, I couldn’t really comprehend what he was saying. It made no sense at all. “Gone? What do you mean, gone? Where? How could he—where would he go? I mean, why would he—”
“No.” Chris caught hold of my hand and held on, and the sound of his voice filled me with dread. “He—there was a car accident.” His fingers tightened on mine. “He was driving back to the Consulate. I guess he’d been on some business, and, ah….” He swallowed hard. “Some guy was driving a Packard down Duckworth Street—maybe he had a snoot-full, I don’t know. He hit Sam’s car. They took Sam to the hospital, but he, ah… he didn’t make it, Jack.” He patted my hand. “He didn’t make it.”
Chapter 8
I SPENT the next four days lying in my hospital bed and wondering what the hell had happened. I still couldn’t get it through my head that Sam was gone—that he’d been killed by a drunk driver and that was that. It didn’t make any sense to me, and nothing fit together. I couldn’t shake my gut feeling that there was a lot more to this, and as soon as my eyesight cleared enough for me to dial a telephone, I got busy finding out what was really going on. I called the number on the card Sam had given me, the one connected to his direct line, but all I got was some lady telling me it had been disconnected. Next I tried the main reception desk of the Consulate. They weren’t exactly thrilled to talk to me, and it showed.
“British Consulate, Alexander Somerset speaking. How may I direct your inquiry?” The voice was young, snotty, and upper-class, with hints of the private hunt club, Eton and Savile Row.
“Listen, Alexander, I’m looking for someone.”
“I suggest you contact the local police department or the American Consulate.”
“No, you don’t understand—you have a consular official working there, an Egyptian named Samuel Halim. I’ve been trying his direct line, but all I get is a recording saying that it’s been disconnected.”
“Samuel Hamel, did you say?”
“Halim. Samuel Halim.” You idiot. “He’s originally fr
om Cairo. He’s been here for a while now. He’s an assistant to the British Consul.”
There was a long pause on the other end, during which I could practically hear Somerset rolling his eyes. “I’m terribly sorry, sir, but you must be mistaken. There are no Egyptian nationals employed here. Good day.”
“Wait!” This was insane. I felt like I’d fallen through the looking glass. “His name is Samuel Halim. He’s about five feet eight inches tall. He has brown hair and brown eyes. His wife’s name is Tareenah and he has four children.”
“I’m terribly sorry, sir. We have no one—”
“Goddammit, he drinks a lot of coffee! He likes to sail. They said he was killed in a car accident a few days ago, but that’s wrong. He’s not dead.”
“Sir, I really cannot help you. We have never had any Egyptian nationals working here, and I know of no one with the surname Halim. Good day.” His tone was final, and so was the click at the end of the line.
I fell back on my pillow and ground my teeth together in frustration. I picked up the phone again and called Dan O’Hagan at the Telegram.
“Jack! Jesus, boy, how are you? I haven’t heard from you in donkey’s ages. How are you getting on?”
Dan listened while I told him about Sam, but I was careful not to say anything about Julie or that little scene at her house the other day. I figured some things were better kept out of the papers.
