Foul Deeds: A Rosalind Mystery

by Linda Moore

  “I have to get my bearings,” I said, getting out of the car. “This morning when I woke up, I knew how everything was going to unfold. Now I know nothing.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The morning’s events had left me badly out of sorts. I thought I might sit down with my old friend Hamlet, get my head back into something familiar. I made a pot of tea, and while I was waiting for it to steep I decided to give Sophie a call to see how she was feeling.

  “I just heard from Michael,” she said. “We’ll be reviewing part one tomorrow—a stumble through.”

  “Oh that’s good to know. I was just thinking I should take a look at it.”

  “Something’s wrong. I can tell from your voice. What is it?”

  “Everything,” I said. “I feel like such an idiot.” I proceeded to tell her about Greta’s visit, the theft of the file and what had happened to Aziz.

  “Oh my god, the poor kid. Like he needed that. But you think he’ll make it?”

  “I certainly hope so. The doctor thought he’d passed through the worst.”

  “And so now what are you doing, Roz?”

  “I’m trying to figure out what Greta’s up to. Honestly, when I picture her sitting at my table last night in that mink coat, it’s like watching a scene out of a forties film noir. Like she was waiting for Humphrey Bogart or Cary Grant to come along and join her for a Scotch.”

  “Really? I didn’t actually get to see her when they had me tied up and blindfolded in the house. But I heard her voice. She certainly had Carl Spiegle on edge. It seemed as though the whole situation was a complete shock to her—but obviously she’s involved or she wouldn’t have stolen the file, or tried to hurt Aziz. You’re right. She does sound like one of those wild noir characters…like Ingrid Bergman in Notorious.”

  “What are you doing today Sophie?” I asked.

  “Remember my apartment? I’m putting everything back together. Why…do you want to come over and forget about things and just watch a movie? Because speaking of Hitchcock, I happen to have Strangers on a Train sitting right here. We could watch that this afternoon, Roz. Let’s have some fun.”

  “Okay. That actually sounds great. I’ll get it together and come over soon.” I hung up and went to pour my tea. Well, this will be just what the doctor ordered, I thought to myself. Just go and hang out with Sophie and watch—which one did she say?—Strangers on a Train. In the next instant, I was overwhelmed with that shivery sense of being “guided.” I looked down and realized I was still pouring—my tea was running all over the counter. Oh my god, I’ve just figured it out, I think. I know what Greta would do! I mopped up the tea and hurried upstairs to my computer to look up schedules for VIA Rail.

  The Halifax–Montreal train left at 12:30, but with a first-class ticket, passengers could board as early as eleven o’clock. It was almost eleven. I had over an hour to check out the train before it even left. I called Sophie and begged off. I thought about inviting her along but decided to learn from my mistakes. I’d gotten her into enough trouble already.

  I went into my room and started searching on the top shelf of my closet for the gold plastic bag that contained a curly, red-haired wig I’d once used in a case. I found it and carefully pinned all my dark hair back, shook the wig out, and put it on. I looked for my sunglasses with the light rose-coloured glass, the kind you could still see through even if the light was poor. I put them on and looked in the mirror. I found it a satisfactory disguise, and I liked it; it made me look kind of hip. I checked my watch. It was exactly eleven o’clock. I grabbed my leather coat and my car keys and headed downtown to the VIA Rail station.

  I parked Old Solid at a two-hour meter on South Street and walked in to the station.

  People were starting to congregate—seeing their friends or relatives off, waiting to board. I walked across the open area and stood in line for a ticket.

  “When can you board?” I asked the ticket man.

  “Not until twelve o’clock,” he said.

  “But if you have a first-class ticket I thought you could board early?”

  “That’s right. They let you stay in the lounge and then they take everyone on.” He looked at his watch. “They’ve probably just gone up.”

  “What’s the first stop?”

  “Truro.”

  I paid him for a first-class ticked to Truro.

  As I walked away from the booth with my ticket, I realized he hadn’t asked for my name or for any ID. Just like the old days. This is perfect for Greta. She wouldn’t even need to give her name, although she probably didn’t pay cash if she was going all the way to Montreal. I was wondering how she might have paid for her ticket as I made my way to the exit that led out onto the platform.

  “Sorry, they’re not boarding yet. Take a seat in the waiting area.”

  “I have a first-class ticket.”

  “You’ll have to wait. They’ve already gone up.”

  “Why do I have to wait? The reason I bought first-class is so I could board early!” Redheads are scrappy, I thought.

  “Okay, okay, just a minute. Mick!” he called out to a porter. “Take this lady to her car please. First class.”

  “Come this way, ma’am. Ticket?”

  I showed him my ticket.

  “This ticket says Truro.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Okay, but you’ll barely be on the train long enough to even get a meal.” He looked at me as if I had lost my marbles as he led me to the first-class coach.

  We walked along the platform.

  “Which are the bedroom cars? I’m thinking of taking the train to Montreal next month and I want to see what they’re like.”

  “These cars that we’re passing now are the bedroom cars,” he said.

  “And are they first class?”

  “There are both economy and first class. First class is more private—much nicer, better service.”

  “Can I see those?”

  “Other passengers aren’t really supposed to be walking through those cars…”

  “Most people probably aren’t even on board yet, and I’m travelling first class myself. It would be worth something to me if I could get a look at them—just a quick look.”

  He gave in. “Sure—just a quick look. Follow me.”

  Ah, the language of tips.

  We boarded the train, turned to our right and went through the heavy door at the end of the car. The bedroom unit doors were all closed to the corridor. He knocked on the first door we came to. There was no answer, so he opened the door and showed me the “bedroom.” It was a double, with everything very compact and tidy. No surprises. A high, recessed shelf for luggage and a little closet. A private sink and toilet. Wall sconces, a nice reading light and a heavy blind on the window.

  “Very nice. I’ll definitely book one,” I said as we stepped back out into the corridor. I was almost knocked over by the unmistakable, intoxicating scent of Chanel. I looked down towards the other end of the car but there was no one in sight. “And where’s the dining car for these passengers?”

  “Just the next car up that way,” he said. “Or you can have a meal brought to your bedroom.”

  “Could we see that car too?” I asked, starting to walk towards the far end, hoping my nose would help me pinpoint which bedroom the scent was coming from. My pulse was racing.

  “Sure,” he said. “Why not.”

  “You lead,” I said, letting him pass me, so I could take my time.

  “Is there a smoking car?”

  “There used to be, but not any more. You have to step off the train at certain designated stations.”

  The scent was definitely stronger about halfway down the car, but it remained strong as we walked along to the other end. We passed through the doors of the two adjoining cars and entered the dining room. He waited while I looked it over. The tables were set with silver, china, and glassware on crisp linen.

  “Very nice,” I said. “Like something out o
f another era. Comfortable too.” I sat down at one of the tables so that I was looking back towards him. I glanced out through the window.

  That’s when I saw her. She was standing on the platform with her back to the entrance of the car, smoking a cigarette. I would know that coat anywhere.

  “We should probably go. This car isn’t really open yet.”

  “Of course,” I said “but this has been great. I think I’ve got all the information I need.”

  He opened the door again, and as we moved between the two cars another porter was on his way up the step from the platform, carrying a medium-sized leather suitcase and a matching vanity case.

  “Hey, Mick buddy. How ya doin,” he said, then turned and went into the bedroom car. We followed. “Here we go—G7,” he said. He opened the compartment with a key and went in with the luggage. I paused and looked in as I was passing. The waft of Chanel came straight out of the room to greet me. This room was bigger than the one I’d been shown, and there was a little armchair by the window.

  “Gosh, this one’s bigger,” I said to Mick.

  “Yes, that’s called a suite.”

  “Lovely. I’ll have to remember that—G7.”

  I made note of the car number as we left it.

  We continued on, passing through two more cars until we got to the first-class coach. There were still many of the comfortable-looking plush seats available. I looked at my watch. It was 11:30. “I really appreciate your help,” I said, handing him a twenty-dollar bill.

  “Thanks! Just let me know if you need anything else,” he said.

  “I will. It’s Mick, right? You don’t have a cellphone I could use just for a minute, do you? A local call.”

  “No problem,” he said, handing me his phone. “Just dial the number and then push send.”

  “I’ll just step out on the platform.”

  He opened the door and we stepped down. I looked back along the platform, but Greta was no longer standing outside. I stood apart and dialed McBride.

  “It’s me.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m the redhead with the first-class ticket to Truro.”

  “What?”

  “I’m on the train. The Ocean. It leaves for Montreal at 12:30. Guess who else is on this train? I just saw her on the platform smoking. She’s in Suite G7, Car 3204.”

  “She’s on the train? Now how on earth did you figure that out?”

  “It was just a hunch…”

  “That must be what I pay you the big bucks for.”

  “That’s why I can afford to give very large tips to porters who let me look in cars that are off limits and loan me their phone when I need it,” I said rapidly in a half-whisper. “So quick, what should we do?”

  “Well, our friend Arbuckle is still at the airport. I spoke to him about ten minutes ago. They discovered that Greta King was booked on a 1:20 flight to New York. So, he’s out there with a couple of officers waiting to apprehend her.”

  “My god, she’s so wily. Okay, how about this? Call him back and tell them to drive to the VIA Rail station at Truro. The train must get in there at 1:30 or so. Wait—I’ll ask the porter—”

  I asked Mick and he told me the train was scheduled to arrive at 1:38.

  “Okay, did you hear that? 1:38. The airport is almost halfway to Truro, so they’ve got plenty of time to get there. In the meantime, how about you make your way down here pronto and join me.”

  “I was about to suggest that very thing,” McBride said.

  “You’ve got about a half an hour to get here. I’ll be in car number…” I turned and looked for the number, “3207.”

  I clicked the phone shut and returned it to the porter.

  He must think I’m really weird, I thought, watching him walk away. A woman with a first-class ticket to Truro who gives twenty-dollar tips but doesn’t own her own cellphone. I guess they meet all kinds in this job.

  I got back on the train and chose a seat. There were plenty. An attendant immediately brought me a Globe and Mail and asked if I’d like a beverage or something to eat. I ordered a ginger ale and sat back to wait.

  As on many previous occasions, McBride arrived just in the nick of time. The train was huffing and puffing and getting ready to roll out when he finally appeared, entering from the far end of the car. The car was only half-full of travellers, mostly businessmen busy ordering drinks.

  “God, I forgot you were a redhead. I thought I had the wrong car.” He dropped into the seat beside me. “It kind of suits you.”

  “I’m glad you think so. I want to look good for the task ahead, but most importantly, I don’t want to show up in Truro with bad hair. So is Arbuckle meeting us there?”

  “Yes, though he’s feeling a little dubious about your so-called hunch. He left a lieutenant at the airport just in case Greta does show up for that flight to New York.”

  “I saw her. Unless she has a twin sister with the same coat, she’s on this train. But it’s wise for him to cover all the bases. Besides, after that magic trick she pulled last night, I’m not convinced she’s human. She may very well appear in more than one place at a time.”

  “I told him that in the several years we’d worked together, you’d had many hunches that were right on the money.”

  “Wow, you admitted that? Have you been in therapy or something?”

  “You know, that wig really affects your personality.”

  “I know it does. I feel much edgier, feisty in fact. I’m sure it’ll wear off. It’s just that I’m completely wound up about what’s going to happen in an hour. Is there a plan?”

  “Of course there’s a plan! What do you take me for?”

  “There’s no plan, is there?”

  “No, but we’ll figure it out. I know this much—Arbuckle is going to be in contact with the conductor and the engineer and they’re going to hold the train until we have her in custody. Presumably it will be up to us to know exactly where she is when we arrive in Truro, so that they can get her off the train without incident. We don’t want any frantic, last-minute chase scenes.”

  “No, we don’t. Alright. That sounds good. You gave Arbuckle the car number and the suite number, so they’ll be very clear on where to get on the train.”

  “Yes, Roz.”

  “You know, she’ll likely be stepping off the train for a cigarette, which would be ideal. They can just scoop her right off the platform. On the other hand, what if she’s crashed out in her little bed, planning to sleep all the way to Campbellton or Rimouski. I mean, she’s been pretty busy. She’s probably exhausted.”

  “Well, then we have the conductor knock on her door, wake her up and ask to see her ticket.”

  “So when do we start to look for her?”

  “We don’t want to do anything that would alert her to the fact that she’s being watched, so I’d say as late as possible.”

  “And what about all the people that are planning to get on in Truro? Do they hold them in the station until she’s taken off the train?”

  He gave me that long-suffering look to let me know I was taxing his patience. “I think we can safely leave that part to Arbuckle. He’ll likely work things out with the station master.”

  “When are you getting your cellphone back? We really should be coordinating this with him.”

  “Roz. Chill. Read the paper.”

  “You’re right.” I tried to relax. I leaned back in my first-class easy chair and closed my eyes. I tried to concentrate on breathing deeply.

  The conductor came along and said, “Tickets!” and I jumped.

  He looked at my ticket. “Truro. That’s the next stop,” he said.

  “I know.” I said. “1:38. Are we going to be on time?”

  “Should be pretty close.”

  The attendant then announced that the first sitting for lunch in the dining room would commence promptly at one o’clock.

  I looked at McBride. “That’s it,” I said. “That’s where she’ll be
. I’d put money on it.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  McBride and I decided to split up. We waited until 1:05. I entered the dining car first. The front section was quite full and Greta was not at any of the tables. I looked down towards the opposite end of the car and there she was, sitting at a table by herself, facing towards me in the direction in which the train was moving. She didn’t even look up from her menu as I walked past her and took a seat at the last table in the car, just behind her, facing her back. My table was smaller and didn’t have a window, so I was hoping no one would join me. An animated crowd of women travelling together spilled in, taking the three remaining empty tables in the middle of the dining car. They were a hearty bunch, laughing, eyeing the waiter, and calling to one another between tables. I gathered from their voluble chat they were writers heading off to a retreat at an abbey somewhere in New Brunswick.

  When McBride entered next, the dining car was crowded. So far, so good. He appraised the situation and moved towards Greta. She shifted a little in her chair.

  “Mind if I join you? The car seems to be full.” He could be quite charming, and was managing to appear rugged and sophisticated at the same time. I stared down at my plate so as not to freak him out.

  “Of course,” she said, and gestured gracefully to the chair opposite her.

  Good breeding. There’s nothing like it.

  “How’s the menu?” he asked, flipping his open.

  “Standard fare in disguise.”

  “In disguise?” he repeated. The word had sent my stomach into a spin. But it was just paranoia.

  “Oh, all these exotic descriptions,” she said. “I find it hard to know what to choose. What will you have?”

  “Hmm. I see what you mean. Well, I’m looking for something light.”

  “Is it too early for a cocktail? Would you like a drink?”

  Excellent, I thought. The longer this lunch takes, the better.

  “I’m on the wagon, I’m afraid. But I’d be happy to buy you a drink. I’ll have a soda or something. What would you like, a white wine?”

  “No, I’ll have a Scotch.”

  “Neat,” I said to myself.