Death as a Last Resort (21 page)

“I hope I have time to drink it before George gets here,” Maggie said, taking one of the cups from Henny. But she had only taken a sip when the outer door opened and George arrived, accompanied by a tall, blond, moustached man. “So you've been up to your usual hijinks, have you, Henny?” he greeted her.

Maggie was amused to see Henny blush when George put his arm around her shoulders. “I've told my friend here all about your famous cookies.” He continued into Nat's office and bent to give Maggie a hug. “Maggie, I'd like you to meet Quentin De Meyer.”

Maggie extended her hand to the familiar-looking man. His blue eyes twinkled as he gave her a slight bow.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Spencer.”

Where have I met him before?

“Hi, Nat,” George said. “I hope you don't mind, but I've asked Quentin to sit in.”

Nat, looking puzzled, reached across his desk to take the man's hand in his. “No. That's fine.”

“Shall I bring coffee?” Henny asked.

“That would be great, Henny,” George answered.

“So what's this all about?” Nat asked once they were all seated.

“Before I tell you, I want you and Maggie to fill us in on Nancy's abduction.”

“And, before I tell you anything,” Nat said, turning to the other man sitting quietly by, “I want to know what your interest is in all of this, Mr. De Meyer?”

“Special Agent De Meyer,” George answered for him.“Quentin is with Interpol, and he's been chasing an antiquities smuggling ring between Cairo and Vancouver.”

“Aha!” Nat said, and he and Maggie exchanged looks.

“So if you wouldn't mind,” George prompted.

So Maggie explained, but just when she got to the part about breaking into the farmhouse in Richmond, Henny returned with coffee for George and Quentin, and interrupted Maggie's story with, “I break the window glass.” She placed the cups in front of the two men and added with relish, “With an axe.”

Nat then explained how he had gone to look for Maggie at Twin Maples and his subsequent tailing of Mahaffy's car.

“And you say you didn't recognize the other man with Mahaffy?” George asked.

“I didn't hang around long enough to get a close look at him. After I realized that Maggie had been there before me and helped Nancy fly the coop, I got out before they discovered me.”

“We think the smuggling started during the war,” De Meyers started to explain. “We're sure that Mahaffy and Bakhash are in it, but we've yet to find the head of the ring. And catching them in the act is also paramount. That's why we'll need to keep Mrs. Southby's kidnapping quiet for a while.”

“She calls herself Mrs. Gladstone—it's her maiden name,” Nat said quietly.

“I take it that she somehow came into possession of some of Dubois's Egyptian jewellery?”

“She insists it was a gift.”

“You said that Nancy is with her aunt?” George asked.

“In New Westminster.”

“I think we should get her into a safe house until this is over.”

“That would certainly relieve my mind,” Nat said.

“She's had a very bad scare,” Maggie chimed in. “She was sure that Mahaffy was going to kill her.” Suddenly, she turned to George's companion. “Where have I seen you before?”

“Yes,” Nat said, “I know I've seen you before, too.”

“The day you were in Arnold Schaefer's office,” Quentin replied.

“Of course,” Maggie said. “You were waiting to have an interview with him. What happened to his previous employee?”

“We made sure he was suddenly offered employment elsewhere—with twice the pay—so Schaefer was desperate.”

“And you just happened to turn up with the right credentials,” Maggie replied.

“I can count on your discretion?”

“That's part of our business,” Nat answered. “Discretion.” He was thoughtful for a moment. “You know, I've suddenly realized who the other man was at the farmhouse.” They all looked at him expectantly. “It was Schaefer!”

“That's why I wanted the job there,” De Meyer said. “We thought he might be the brains behind this ring.”

“At least we know where they'll all be next weekend,” George said as he stood to shrug into his overcoat.

“Where?” Nat asked.

“Quentin overheard Schaefer on the telephone. He's arranged a getaway weekend at the same fishing lodge.”

“You mean St. Clare's Cove?” Maggie asked, surprised.

“He was very insistent that they all attend and bring their wives so it will look innocent—he stressed that it was a very important matter.”

“Oh! How I would love to be a fly on that wall,” Nat said.

• • •

IT WAS NEARLY ELEVEN thirty when Nat received a phone call from George. “Mission accomplished,” he said. “Nancy made a bit of fuss, but when we pointed out that her life was in danger, she agreed to the safe house.”

“I wonder what happened to that jewellery?” Maggie mused after Nat told her of George's call. “Nancy insisted that she buried it in her back garden and I believe her. But she says that Mahaffy was equally insistent that his men dug where she told them, and it wasn't there.”

“She's not going to be safe until that stuff's found,” Nat answered. “By the way, I hope it's all right with you, but I've made reservations for us for next weekend, too.”

“How lovely! Where are we going?”

“The St. Clare Resort. We're catching the Friday afternoon sailing from Horseshoe Bay to the Sunshine Coast.”

“But that's like walking into the lion's den,” she exclaimed. “What are they going to say when we turn up?”

“Not much they can say, is there? They don't own the place.”

“Well, I know you said you'd love to be a fly on the wall when that lot gets together, but . . .”

“And this is almost as good. Come on, I'm taking you and Henny out for an early lunch.”

• • •

THE FOLLOWING WEEK WAS a quiet one for the Southby and Spencer Agency, and by Wednesday morning Nat was back in the Vancouver office of the Forests Ministry. Jake Houston, true to his word, had found a small cubbyhole for him to work in, and Nat was soon immersed in the masses of files and papers that had been piled onto a battered wooden desk. The only window overlooked part of English Bay, and at first he found it hard to concentrate when the weather was so lovely and he could see sailboats dotting the water between freighters lying at anchor, waiting for berths at the grain terminals. But after a while, he forgot the view and immersed himself in reading the many memos, letters and other documents, and it didn't take him long to see how easy it was for unauthorized logging to go on unnoticed in remote parts of British Columbia. He began making notes.

At noon on Friday, Henny was still at her desk typing as Nat and Maggie prepared to leave for their weekend at the resort. “C'mon, Henny, time to go home!” Nat said.

“I will just finish this report, Mr. Nat, then I start Monday with a clean desk,” she said, waving them out the door. “I will lock up the office. Don't you worry.”

Fifteen minutes later, she was just covering her typewriter when the office door opened and René Dubois entered.

“Is Mrs. Spencer in?”

“You have just missed her. She and Mr. Nat are gone away for the weekend.”

“Oh.” René sat down, looking despondent. “She told me to report if anything happened at Bakhash's factory.”

Henny uncovered her typewriter again and rolled a sheet of paper into it. “And you have something to report?”

“I wanted to tell her that my boss is sure one of the staff touched his crates.”

Henny typed this information and then looked up expectantly. “So people are not happy with him . . .”

“Especially the men who usually unload the crates. One of them asked Bakhash if he was accusing him of stealing. He sorta backed down after that. So where has Mrs. Spencer gone?”

Henny didn't look up from her typing. “To that fishing lodge.”

“You mean St. Clair Cove? What's she doing there?”

“She is detecting,” Henny said.

“But that's where Bakhash has gone, too,” René said slowly. “What's going on up there?”

Suddenly, Henny remembered Maggie's many admonitions about giving out information, and she was desperately trying to figure out how to take back what she had already said when the phone rang. “Southby and Spencer Agency. Henny speaking . . . Oh, it is you, Mr. George . . . No, they are gone for the weekend . . . What is that? . . . Oh dear! When did she . . . ?” She listened for a while and then said, “I'll be sure to tell them if they call. Mr. Nat will be very upset . . . Oh, I hope it is not that . . .” After saying goodbye, she replaced the receiver and sat staring at it worriedly.

“Has something happened to Mrs. Spencer?”

“It is Mr. Nat's old wife that is in trouble. Mr. George thinks the kidnappers have kidnapped her again . . .”

“Kidnappers?” René asked.

And once more Henny momentarily forgot Maggie's admonitions. “Mr. Nat says it is all because she took that jewellery . . .” Then, realizing she had once more said too much, she quickly rose from her chair and rolled the sheet of paper from her typewriter. “I tell Mrs. Maggie you called, okay?”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

T
hey hadn't been on the Blackball ferry since the previous September, when they had to go to Gibsons to break the news to Johanna Evans's parents that she had been brutally murdered. Maggie wondered how they were coping and if they had managed to put their lives back together. She shuddered as she leaned over the railing and watched the water flowing past, knowing that she would have been absolutely devastated if it had been one of her daughters. Nat, standing beside her, put his arm around her shoulders and drew her to him.

“I know exactly where your thoughts are, Maggie,” he said quietly, “but unfortunately in this business we do come up against the seamier side of life. Take a deep breath of this wonderful sea air and admire those magnificent mountains. See, there's still a lot of snow on them.”

He was right. The view was just as spectacular as their last trip to the Sunshine Coast, and unlike many commuters who used the ferry on a regular basis, Maggie wished the trip would last longer than the usual hour. But all too soon the boat was bumping its way into the slip and the passengers were back in their cars and waiting to disembark.

• • •

THE IRON-SPIKED GATES OF the resort were open when they arrived, and they were soon driving down a long tree-lined gravel lane that led to a parking lot on the landward side of the main building. Nat parked the car right next to a woodshed piled high with cordwood. The lodge and the cabins they could see through the trees were, as Stella had commented, definitely rustic and rather run-down.

Nat pinged the bell at the reception desk while Maggie and Oscar waited patiently beside the luggage. “Nat Southby. We have a reservation,” Nat said when the desk clerk appeared from her small office behind the desk.

“Mr. and Mrs. Southby. How nice to meet you,” she said, reaching for a key on the board behind her. “We've put you in a lovely double room overlooking the cove,” she continued. “Would you please sign here?”

As Nat signed the register, Maggie couldn't help her feeling of discomfort. What would her mother say if she saw them posing as husband and wife? Or her grandmother, Maggie thought, God rest her soul. Maggie felt ridiculous as she felt the crimson stain her cheeks, but she just couldn't feel completely comfortable and adult about the whole thing. She wasn't a film star or a teenager or someone else who could take such a thing lightly. She diverted herself by thinking about Oscar. She was equally worried that he wouldn't be welcome. However, Oscar did his bit to seem angelic by wagging his tail and giving the receptionist one of his doggy grins. That settled it.

The corner room they were shown to was large and airy, though badly in need of redecorating. But the receptionist was right—it did have a splendid view of the beautiful little cove, as well as a second window that overlooked some cabins in the forested area to the north. It took them only a few minutes to freshen up and set out to explore before dinner. There was a grassy area—it couldn't be called a lawn—that led down to a stony, shell-encrusted beach and a floating wooden walkway, where boats of all sizes bobbed up and down at their berths. By now the sun was low in the sky and it cast a golden path over the shimmering water, where screeching gulls dipped and cormorants dived to look for their supper.

Maggie gave a long sigh of contentment. “This is absolute heaven.” She turned and gazed back at the old lodge. A covered wooden veranda stretched from one end of the building to the other, with three wooden steps leading from the crushed oyster-shell pathway to the open centre of the structure. Rattan chairs, tables and a couple of rocking chairs had been set on either side of a doorway that Maggie realized led directly into the rear of the lodge. To its left were the three small cabins they had seen from their room, nestled among cedars and arbutus under a stark, almost bare granite bluff. To its right stood half a dozen larger cabins, each with a private path through the trees to the beach. Raising her eyes to the land that rose sharply above the main building, Maggie could see three more cabins partially hidden by trees and undergrowth, and she pointed them out to Nat. “They must be on that side road that turned off to our left just after we came through the gate.”

“But who'd want to stay in one of those?” he said. “You'd only get a squint at the ocean from there.”

“I wonder if any of the motley crew have arrived,” Maggie said.

“I didn't see any of them on the ferry,” Nat answered.

“Well, we'll know at dinner, I guess.”