A Deceptive Devotion

by Iona Whishaw

  Chapter Twenty-NINE

  Lane stood in the kitchen, looking unseeing at the peaceful view through the windows. She struggled to understand what she’d discovered. The rifle could have been there all along. She tried to remember if she’d ever really looked in the spare room cupboard. Kenny might know. She thought through it carefully and then dismissed the idea that the rifle belonged to her guest. She had arrived with two suitcases and nothing else. Lane took a deep breath and told herself to back away from the cliff of her own anxieties. It must be easily explained.

  She would make a cup of tea and sort out her thoughts. The rifle might not be any part of this. She would try to work through her concerns by mapping them out. There were enough unanswered questions besides the rifle. She filled the kettle and put it on the stove and took up several sheets of foolscap. And then she put them down and hurried to the spare room. She might as well know what sort of rifle it was. Glancing out the glass panes of her front door at her undisturbed yard, she went into the room, opened the closet door, and then stopped. She took off her sweater and gingerly took the gun by the barrel using the sweater so that she didn’t touch it with her hands. It looked like something from the Great War. She did not understand all the insignias, but she knew a George V insignia meant it had been made early in the century. She felt a sense of comfort from this. She took the rifle and moved across the hall to her own room, and put it into her closet, behind the hanging clothes. Her thought was that the vintage made it all the more likely the gun belonged to Kenny, or his mother. A decommissioned military rifle from the Great War. She took her sweater from the bed and closed the door of her room. She would make her tea and carry on with her map plan; later, she would examine more closely why she wasn’t comfortable with the rifle being in the closet of Orlova’s room.

  Tea made, and a soothing cup to hand, she took up her paper again and began. She drew a circle and wrote “Vancouver” and then “Brit. Con. Hunt there to watch for Russians.” Then she drew a ship at the edge of the circle. Then “Orlova searching for missing brother?” She sat back. No. There was no missing brother. Or there was a brother, but not missing. The truth of it was that Orlova was here to find Aptekar. But then why the picture of the so-called brother, who turned out to be a feared MGB agent?

  She looked at the activity around that Vancouver circle. Orlova appears and then Aptekar arrives there, after who knows what kind of journey, and now is here. She wrote “Aptekar arrives from? Vladivostok?” She took up a second piece of paper and drew a circle and wrote “Nelson,” and then drew a line linking one with the other crossing both pages. “Aptekar arrives, is possibly the vagrant. Oxley, Canadian agent. Sent to pick him up.” Now then. For the first time she wondered why the Canadians were involved at all. She was sure Hunt had not mentioned the involvement of the Canadians. The only possibility was that the British were looking for Aptekar, and had alerted the Canadians to be on the lookout, in the one likely place he’d turn up: with her. Her blood ran cold. With deliberation she wrote “Dunn” on a third piece of paper. At the bottom of the paper she wrote “Vladivostok” and drew a dotted line between them.

  Aptekar was a defecting agent who was turning himself over to the British to retire. They’d arranged to collect him, only he’d never arrived at the meeting point in Yugoslavia. Instead he engaged in some harum-scarum flight across the whole of Russia, not to mention an ocean, to get here. Why? What did he have that warranted that flight, and all this elaborate to-do from the Canadian government to pick him up? And if the Canadians are, practically speaking, the British, why was Aptekar not comfortably turning himself over to them, instead of engaging in this desperate bid to see her?

  Lane sat stock still in front of her map. The silence of the house seemed to intensify. She shook her head, as if to clear it, but the question would not reshape or resolve itself. How had Hunt known about her marriage? She had resolved the matter of him knowing about her guest; the man in Ottawa must have said something to Dunn, who was conveying all the instructions to Hunt in Vancouver. Or had he? She struggled now to remember if Darling had said whether the Ottawa man had said anything about Orlova. Perhaps, if Darling hadn’t brought it up, he wouldn’t have either. But the marriage? Here was the central question: if the man in Ottawa didn’t know they were getting married, then how did Hunt know?

  Feverishly she took another piece of paper and wrote two names at the top: Angus Dunn and Ottawa Man. She drew a line of communication between them. Then she drew a line of communication down, from Dunn to Hunt and from Hunt to herself. The line descending from Ottawa Man took her to Oxley and then to Orlova. These lines of communication should be the normal ones. Dunn contacts Ottawa; he thinks a Russian agent set to defect might run to ground in Canada, seeking out a retired British agent called Lane Winslow. Ottawa Man then goes into action. He doesn’t tell Dunn how he’s going to do it. He just reassures him he’ll take care of it and then uses his own people.

  Yet, somehow Dunn learns something that Ottawa Man doesn’t know. That she is getting married. She knew it must be Dunn because there is no reason for Hunt to know it independently. He gets all his information from Dunn.

  Her flowchart wasn’t helping. She looked at it again and then, with a kind of illumination, saw what wasn’t quite right. Orlova wasn’t quite right. Everyone else made sense. She didn’t, though she was clearly the “eyes on the ground” so that she could notify Oxley with her little radio transmitter if Aptekar turned up.

  On the surface, that explanation made sense; even the charade about her brother made sense. Poor old dear looking for her missing brother, a White Russian refugee fleeing the advance of Communism into Asia. Orlova had told her the stories about her childhood and her flight from the Bolsheviks. Those had a ring of truth, she admitted. What wasn’t true was the brother. The brother turned out to be an MGB agent and, very likely, not her brother at all. Then, what? She wondered if she should try to reach Ames to ask him to just go over what he’d learned in Vancouver.

  The other thing that was starkly clear was that the one person who knew she was getting married to the inspector was Orlova herself. In her flow chart, Orlova would tell Oxley and Oxley would then go up the line to Ottawa Man. But Ottawa Man hadn’t known. Hunt could only have heard from Dunn.

  Dunn had been jealous and petty when Darling had been released from jail in London early in the summer. He most certainly knew she and Darling were in love. Had he speculated to Hunt in one of his communications about a possible wedding? But no, Hunt had congratulated her on her upcoming marriage. He knew quite specifically that it was to take place. She took her pencil and drew a short line of communication from Dunn and ended it with a question mark. Where had he learned of it?

  What was the line of communication between Orlova and Dunn? Her head felt congested with unformed and unanswered questions. One thing was clear. There was a whole layer of communication invisible in the background somewhere that she could not put her finger on.

  Ames first. Lane took all her papers and looked around the kitchen. There was really no place there that she could keep them completely safe from her guest. She felt the urgent need for precaution, even though, apparently, her guest would be gone by some time the next day, when she herself would meet Aptekar and take him and Orlova for the rendezvous with Oxley. Finally, she went to her bedroom and pushed the papers under the mattress, and then went into the hall for the phone.

  Not knowing how much time she had before Orlova came back from her painting expedition up the hill near the schoolhouse, Lane stood impatiently waiting to be connected to Constable Ames. She turned her body so that in spite of having to face the trumpet to talk, she could keep an eye on the front door, where she would be able to see when Orlova came back.

  “Constable Ames.”

  Relieved, Lane said, “Oh, Constable, it’s Lane Winslow. I’m so sorry to bother you.”

  “Now that�
�s one thing you never need be sorry about, Miss Winslow. What can I do for you?”

  “Can you tell me, just quickly, about what you discovered when Darling asked you to check into the Russian community in Vancouver? I know that the picture turned out to be an MGB agent and someone you talked to had met him and been interrogated by him and was frightened. Was there anything else odd in your research?” Lane stopped and then quickly added, “Is Constable Oxley anywhere near, by the way?”

  “No. He’s downstairs. The other really odd thing was the body, but I don’t think it has anything to do with anything. Otherwise it was just me hitting blank walls. Most people, besides the frightened guy, had never even seen your old lady. I mean, that was peculiar certainly, since I understood from the boss that she’d been all over town looking for her brother.”

  “Body? What body?” Lane glanced through the panes of glass up her driveway. No Orlova yet. She noticed that some of the leaves in the maple trees interspersed among the bank of birches at the edge of the driveway were starting to turn. The cozy comfort of red and orange was in such contrast to her own anxiety.

  “Like I said, I don’t think it has much to do with this . . . more of a coincidence really, but it turns out there was the body of some Russian guy in the morgue. I asked to see him in case he was the brother, but he wasn’t. I did actually help with that one, as a matter of fact. They thought he’d died of a heart attack, but I saw a thing that looked like a rash on his neck, and when I mentioned it to them, they pooh-poohed it. But a week or so later when I was coming out of my last session the guy from the morgue came to tell me they now thought he’d been poisoned, and the poison was likely administered by something spread on his skin. I felt pretty good, I don’t mind telling you!”

  “I’m not surprised, Ames. I’ve always thought you were the bee’s knees. When do you hear about your exam?”

  “A couple of weeks still, I guess. And thank you. Is there anything else?”

  “No, that’s splendid, thanks, Constable! Oh, and thank you for being the best man. It’s so kind of you.”

  “I nearly died when he asked me. I’m terrified of making a mess of it.”

  “You could never mess it up. You will be wonderful. And I hope that by then we’ll be calling you Sergeant Ames!”

  Lane stood in the hallway after hanging the earpiece on its hook. Ames’s news had not been in the least bit reassuring. That death in Vancouver. Something about her time at the Russian desk during the war nudged at her. That was it. There had been rumours that the Soviets had a secret facility where they manufactured barbaric chemical weapons and tested them, likely on political prisoners. But it didn’t follow that this man’s death had anything to do with Orlova at all. If she understood what Hunt had said, there was substantial Soviet activity in the country. The dead man could have been a dissident polished off by one of these Russian sailors that seemed to always be coming into the Vancouver port.

  Could she try to get hold of Hunt in Vancouver? Could she risk another long phone call before Orlova got back? The shadows were beginning to descend along the mountains behind King’s Cove. Even a determined painter would not stay out in the woods as the light and temperature fell. Was she even painting? She may be painting, Lane thought grimly, but she’s also on the transmitter. Presumably to Oxley. Telling him she’d found an envelope from Aptekar in Lane’s mail pile. Telling him that whatever note it had contained had been substituted with a blank piece of paper. Telling him they needed to be cautious because Lane was suspicious. And he was no doubt telling her that he knew that Aptekar would be arriving tomorrow. And still the irksome question: how had he found out? He must have followed him or learned something from the motel owner—but what? And why, oh why, did Oxley not just pick him up in town?

  She suddenly felt being inside was making her claustrophobic, blocking her capacity for thought. She needed air, so she wrapped herself in her green sweater and went to sit on the porch. She had to come up with a plan that would not raise suspicion but would protect Aptekar, if all of this was adding up to his needing protection. The centrepiece of her plan rested on Darling either finding Aptekar himself or preventing Oxley from making the trip out.

  Darling was irritated to find the car was out. “Well where is it?” he asked O’Brien.

  O’Brien shrugged. “Oxley has it. He didn’t explain himself to me, I’m afraid.” He sniffed in a slightly hard-done-by tone.

  “I need to get to a motel just out of town on the Salmo road.”

  “I did bring my car today, sir. I have to run over to pick up some apples from a farmer for the wife. She cans apple sauce. I could drive you.”

  “I need to go alone. Can’t explain.”

  “Yeah, of course, sir.” He reached into his pockets and took out the keys. “Blue ’39 Studebaker. Parked up on Cedar. The gear shift is a little creaky going into third.”

  “Thanks, Sergeant.”

  Darling stood on the sidewalk looking up and down the street. Where had Oxley gone? Off using that blasted radio? All Oxley’s absences, irritating at the time, now added up to a man who was using his police station and his police vehicle for whatever he wanted. How had Darling not put two and two together? He set off for Cedar and found O’Brien’s car parked facing downward toward Baker. As he eased onto the main road, he thought about cars. He ought to get one. No, he had to get one. The days of Ames driving him around like a grandee were over. He’d be living up the lake with Lane, and Ames would no longer be quite the underling.

  The motel looked gloomy and faded in the shadow of the hill it was built against. One pickup truck with a wood-slated bed was parked in front of the long low building. Now that summer was over, and school was back in, the motel’s season had come to an end. How did a place like this stay in business the rest of the year?

  “Hello?” he called, when he’d stepped into the office. He was rewarded with the sound of the front legs of a chair crashing to the ground, and a clearing of the throat.

  “Coming.” It was the voice of a man who smoked and drank pretty liberally. “One night?” the man said, when he’d made an appearance.

  Darling took out his card and held it up. “I’m looking for a man who may have stayed here. Tall, white haired, accent.”

  “Had another one of you guys here yesterday looking for him. Heard the foreigner was dangerous, so I’m glad to tell you he hasn’t been back, and I don’t know where he is. He left his carry-all here. I got it in the back.”

  “What do you mean dangerous?”

  “Cop told me he was a wanted man, armed and dangerous. Not to approach him but to call the station and ask for him if he turned up. I told that other cop that the man mailed a letter but otherwise seemed harmless enough, but you never know, do you? Turns out he’s a crook. Do you want his stuff? I sure don’t need it.”

  Darling sat in the car after he’d parked back on Cedar. According to Lane, Aptekar was not in the least dangerous. Perhaps Oxley had described him as a wanted man to underline the urgency of finding him. Oxley knew he was going to be in King’s Cove the next day. How? Logical. He must have gone to the post office, and somehow from there been redirected to the steamer office. Likely Aptekar would have asked the post office where the steamer office was. If that was the case, why would Oxley not just take his man before he boarded the steamer? Why go through the charade of having him travel all the way to the Cove to meet Lane?

  “Thanks, O’Brien,” Darling said, handing back the keys. “Oxley back?”

  “Yes, sir. Shall I send him up?”

  “Yup.”

  Back in his office, Darling took out the file on the Taylor case and looked, unseeing, at the notes contained therein. A knock, followed by the door opening brought Oxley into the room.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  Suppressing the “no” that came to him, Darling said,
“Yes. Sit down.” He waited for Oxley to sit and then took a long breath. “I’ve spoken to Miss Winslow. There will be no need for you to go to King’s Cove tomorrow. She will bring the man in and that probably bogus countess as well. Your job will be done, and you can take yourselves off to Ottawa. Though, since you seem to know where he’s going to be and when, I’m at a loss to understand why you don’t take him before he boards the steamer.”

  “You done, sir? Not possible, I’m afraid. I don’t expect you to understand. I’ll be going out, as I planned.”

  “Why?”

  Oxley considered this.

  “Will that be all, sir?” Then, not receiving an answer, he stood up and made for the door. He turned back to Darling. “By the way, I’ve replaced the tyre. I won’t need your car, you’ll be happy to learn. I’ve hired one of my own.”

  Fuming at this entirely unsatisfactory conversation, Darling sat, trying to breathe away his irritation. Finally, he picked up the phone and had a call put through to King’s Cove.

  When the phone rang, Lane waited and then said, “Mine. Excuse me.” She and Orlova had been preparing vegetables for dinner in the kitchen. “KC 431. Lane Winslow speaking.”

  “That swine Oxley can’t be stopped. He’s going out tomorrow as he planned. I don’t really see how I can prevent it. He, after all, does not belong to me. And by the way, I went to the motel, and Aptekar never came back after he left yesterday. I have his bag, which he left behind.”

  “Oh, yes, I know. We’re having an early dinner ourselves. We’ve some lovely carrots from the garden. I don’t know how the deer left us any. We must have spooked them by sitting in the garden. They left one carrot half eaten and ran.” Lane made this pronouncement in a cheerful and enthusiastic voice.