Death as a Last Resort (16 page)

“How is that possible?”

“Because of the remoteness of the areas in question. There are rangers, of course, but these are vast areas we're talking about, and I'm afraid we have a few dishonest people in the business. That's where you can help us.”

“Me?”

“We want you to make enquiries.”

“Thanks for your consideration, Mr. Houston, but I haven't the time to tramp all over BC looking at logging sites. And I certainly don't have the expertise to know whether they've been logged over their allotted boundaries or . . .”

“No, no. That's not what we're asking you to do. Your agency has already uncovered this Dubois character, but he's dead. What we need to know is who his contacts were in order to see if they lead into other nefarious goings-on in the . . . uh . . . ministry.”

“What about the RCMP?”

“We must keep a low profile with this. We're approaching you because you are already on the ground floor of this case, so to speak. Besides, you are a former police officer and it's obvious you know your way around.”

Nat sat quietly thinking about the money, the prestige and the possibility of future jobs with the government before he answered. “You understand that I have to consult my partner before I could agree, and that we would require the names and addresses of all your staff who could possibly be involved.”

Houston nodded. “Then you will consider taking this on for us?”

• • •

IT WAS A LITTLE after five, and Maggie was preparing supper for herself. She hadn't heard from Nat so supposed he wasn't back from his meeting in Victoria. After popping one of her made-ahead pot pies into the oven, she was sipping a glass of red wine while waiting for her dinner to warm up when the telephone gave its annoying jangle. She debated letting the thing ring, but then it could be Nat or even one of her daughters. Placing her glass of wine on the counter, she reached for the instrument.

“It's René, Mrs. Spencer. I've been trying to get hold of you since yesterday afternoon.”

“What's wrong?”

“You told me to call you if I heard anything unusual,” he answered in an accusing voice. “Well, I did. I heard Bakhash and some guy yelling at each other.”

“In the office?”

“No. The stockroom in the basement. I had to go down there to get a bolt of seersucker.”

“Did they see you?”

“No, no. Anyway, Bakhash was yelling at this guy about him grabbing some woman and that there were better ways to get the stuff back.”

“Did you recognize the man?”

“No, I couldn't see him, but the important thing is, Mrs. Spencer, Bakhash told him that another consignment would be coming in, and that they would be unpacking it Friday evening when there was no one around.”

“You mean tonight?” Maggie asked.

“Yes, and this other guy said that at least my dad was no longer a threat, and if that fool Edgeworthy had followed instructions, the other stuff would have been safe, too.”

“Good work, René! This is important information.”

“Anyway, I could smuggle you into the building, and we could see what they're up to.”

“Heavens no, René. That would be foolhardy to say the least. Remember, both your father and stepmother have been murdered . . . and probably by these same people.”

“But I want to find out why,” he answered vehemently.

“Mr. Southby would be dead against us doing any snooping.” She paused for a moment while possibilities ran through her mind. “And I can't ask him, as he's not back from Victoria.”

“You want to know what's in those crates, don't you?”

“Certainly, but this would be far too risky.”

“Then I'll have to go by myself.”

“You can't possibly go in there alone,” she said. “What if you're caught?” Then she added reluctantly, “Oh, all right. But I'll need a safe parking spot for my car.”

“There's a restaurant called the Daily Bread quite near the factory and it has a large parking lot.”

“Okay. I'll meet you there.” She replaced the receiver, grabbed her coat and turned the oven off. “I guess supper's going to be a mite late.”

Maggie was still feeling very unhappy about the venture as she parked her car. Nat would be furious when he found out. She got out and was locking the door when René suddenly appeared at her side.

“I still don't think this is a very good idea, René,” she said when she climbed into his old Jeep.

“Hold tight, Mrs. Spencer,” he said as he swerved around the corner and both their seats shot forward. “Sorry,” he said. “The seats have come loose on their runners.”

“I see what you mean,” she yelled at him over the noisy engine. “Why don't you get it fixed? That's really dangerous!”

“I keep forgetting,” he said as he pulled the Jeep over to the curb just around the corner from the factory.

“Look, René,” Maggie said as she clambered out of the vehicle, “if I feel that it is too dangerous for us to be here, we're leaving. Understood?”

“Okay. I understand.”

The evening had turned cold and the harsh wind made Maggie pull up the fur collar of her wool coat. She buried her hands deep into her pockets, and her right hand closed around her trusty flashlight. “How do you propose we get into the building?”

“Don't worry. I've got this,” and he brandished a large key. “My supervisor keeps it in his desk, so I borrowed it.”

The grim, totally dark building did nothing to lift Maggie's spirits. She watched in trepidation as René fitted the key into the scarred wooden door. With the banks of sewing machines silenced for the night, it was eerily quiet inside. “Which way?” she whispered.

A beam from René's flashlight lit up the square reception area, and taking Maggie by the elbow, he led her to a door she hadn't noticed on her previous visits. It revealed wooden stairs leading down into inky blackness. “Be careful. These stairs are steep and they curve.” Maggie brought out her own flashlight and followed him down, but she was relieved when she felt the solid floor beneath her. René played his flashlight over four rows of tall racks, their shelves piled high with bolts of fabric and enormous cartons of Bakhash and Son's shirts.

“What if they come back early?” Maggie whispered as she followed him between the racks.

“Oh, there are lots of places to hide,” René reassured her.

About twenty feet from the freight doors, the racks ended, and much of the remaining space was filled with enormous empty cartons and wooden crates stacked in higgledy-piggledy fashion against the walls and the ends of the racks.

“See,” René said, “there are the crates I was talking about.” He played his light over three huge wooden boxes standing close to the freight entrance.

Maggie walked over to inspect them in the beam from her own flashlight. She could see right away that the wooden lids had been firmly hammered shut and that each crate had been tightly bound with thin metal strips. There was no easy way to open them. “What we need is a crowbar,” she said.

“You're not going to open them yourself?” René asked in horror.

“How else can we see what's inside?”

“I thought we'd hide out until they came and opened them.”

“I plan to be long gone before they get here, René.”

“But if you open them, they'll know someone's been here.”

“So what?” She swept the beam of her flashlight over the cartons, brought it to a halt on a workbench that stood against the far wall, then walked purposefully toward it. “This will do it,” she announced and, picking up a box hatchet, headed back to the crates, jammed the blade under the metal strapping of the nearest crate and heaved. It gave a satisfying snap and fell to the floor. “This shouldn't take long,” she said, as she got ready to break the next one.

“Oh, merdé!” René hissed. “Someone's coming.”

“What?” Then Maggie heard the sound, too—cars arriving outside. “René!”

Taking Maggie by the hand, he pulled her toward the huge pile of carelessly stacked crates and cardboard boxes.

“I thought you said there were plenty of hiding places,” Maggie hissed, tightening her grip on the box hatchet.

“There are,” he whispered back, “but we don't have time to get there.”

She put a hand up to steady the cartons before they toppled down on them.
One puff of wind and this whole lot will go
, she thought.

They extinguished their flashlights moments before the door rolled up. Peering between the boxes, they could see three men silhouetted in the entranceway. Maggie stifled a gasp when the sudden draft caught one of the boxes that had been balanced on the top of the pile and sent it skittering across the concrete floor. A moment later, the whole area was flooded in harsh light.

“Shut the bloody door,” one of the men yelled. “It's freezing.”

Maggie silently agreed. She could see her breath as she hunkered down on the floor next to René.

Just then the door rattled down again.

“Let's get this done,” one of the men snapped. “Hey,” called another voice, “what's this?”

There was silence for a moment and then Maggie recognized Henry Smith's voice “Must have been one your lads done it, Bakky,” Smith said calmly.

“I gave strict instructions that no one was to touch these crates.”

“Calm down, Bakky. You know people don't listen. Let's get 'em open.”

“My name is Bakhash, Mr. Smith—Bakhash!” he snapped. A few minutes later, they heard a volley of Arabic and the sound of tools being flung onto the floor. “Where is that bloody hatchet?” he yelled in English.

“Oh, damn!” Maggie mouthed silently as she hugged the box hatchet to her chest.

“For God's sake, Bakky, get a grip!” Smith's voice seemed very close to their hiding place. “You must have more than one. Here, this'll do it . . .”

Maggie realized that she had been holding her breath. She only let it out when she heard the snapping of the metal strips breaking and then the screeching of nails as the wooden tops were wrenched off.

“Now, slow, slow . . . be careful with the fabric,” Bakhash ordered. “I can't make shirts with torn and dirty cotton.” Then a while later, “Okay, stop . . . stop there. Gently, gently . . . Put it over there.”

Maggie signalled to René that she was going to take a peek and slowly got to her knees so that she could see between the boxes. René, struggling to rise beside her, accidentally kicked the metal flashlight that he had left lying on the floor.

“What was that?”

“Rats,” Bakhash answered.

“It came from over there,” Smith said.

“Come on, come on! Let's get on with it!”

Shaking with fear and the cold, the two in hiding could see Smith and another man dressed in a hooded jacket. They watched as the men withdrew long rolls of cotton from one of the crates, then held each roll vertically while Bakhash pushed cotton-wrapped packets—some of them only inches long, others much, much larger—from their cardboard cores. They repeated the same long process with the other crates before they slowly unwrapped each packet and laid the objects within them reverently on an overturned crate.

“We've hit the jackpot this time,” the man in the jacket breathed, picking up what looked like a small ebony cat, from the way its jewelled eyes glinted under the light.

Maggie and René watched spellbound as the men picked up piece after piece and examined them before rewrapping them.

“Whew!” Smith said. “This lot's worth millions. And this time I'm taking charge of it,” he continued. “We can't risk another blunder.”

“It wasn't my fault that Gladstone bitch got into my place!”

Edgeworthy!
Maggie thought.
I'm certain that's Edgeworthy.

“She must have had help,” Bakhash said, as he began reverently rolling each piece in cotton fabric. “Your neighbour saw that Spencer woman's car in the alley.”

“What
looked
like her car,” he corrected testily. “Anyway, your boys went through her place, didn't they? And they didn't find . . .” He held up his hand. “Sounds like someone's outside.”

“Probably the boss. He said he would come and make sure everything was okay.” Smith walked over to the freight door and scraped it open. “It's a good haul,” he greeted the new arrival.

The gust of wind that accompanied the boss's entrance sent more of the empty boxes flying. Maggie was thankful that she and her partner-in-crime had taken advantage of the interruption and carefully eased themselves inside two of the empty crates.

One of the men must have made a move to pick up the scattered boxes, because Bakhash shouted, “Leave them. I'll get them later.”

Maggie would have given anything to have seen who this boss man was, but there was no way she was going to risk another peek.

“Everything intact, then?” From their hiding place inside the crate, the newcomer's voice was muffled.

“Smith's got buyers lined up,” Edgeworthy answered.

“What about the woman?” the newcomer asked.

I know that voice,
Maggie thought.

“Still says she only had the bracelet,” Smith said, “and I'm beginning to think she's telling the truth.”

The boss's response was too low for Maggie to hear, but Smith came back with, “Well, she only tried to hock the bracelet.” Then he added, “Anyway, you gotta get her outta my emporium. I got a business to run.”

There was a muttered response, probably from the boss, and then Smith said, “Okay, we'll take her to the farm tonight.”

“Come on, let's get on with it,” Edgeworthy snarled, “so we can get out of this freezing hole.”

“Give me one of them little boxes to pack this stuff in,” Smith said.